


Independent

by OneBlueUmbrella (bigblueboxat221b)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BAMF Greg Lestrade, BAMF John Watson, Blind Date, Coming Out, Downright Awful Violet Holmes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Mummy Holmes is A Bit Not Good, POV Greg Lestrade, Sherlock is a Brat, Supportive Greg, difficult parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:28:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28088505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/OneBlueUmbrella
Summary: When Greg heads reluctantly off to yet another blind date, he doesn't reckon on it planting him square in the middle of both a nasty sibling prank and whatever agreement is going on between Mycroft Holmes and his mother. As they talk Greg realises there might be a way he can help Mycroft, but is he putting himself in the firing line in the process - and who's looking out for his heart in all this?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 204
Kudos: 383





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There will be more tags as chapters come along, but I'd like to keep some of the mystery as to where we're going with this one. I haven't had a long form WIP for a while, and I look forward to travelling this path with you!

Greg found himself twisting his fingers as he endured the ride. Blind dates were never really comfortable, but this was a level beyond even the usual. As the cab stopped and started through the evening traffic, he tried to figure out why. Maybe it was because John suggested it? He certainly knew Greg better than any of the other people he’d let persuade him. He’d be more likely to get it right. Was that what he was frightened of? Meeting someone right?

The other dates ranged from blandly nice to disastrous. After the last one Greg decided not to go out again for a while, but John had been persuasive. They’d shared enough quiet pints together, and Greg figured what the heck. One last roll of the dice, for now at least. If it didn’t work out, he would just leave it for a while. Put the effort into himself, like John had been gently hinting he could do. Get back into running maybe, or find a pick-up game of football on a weekend. The idea wasn’t unattractive, per se, but the effort required was roughly equal to putting himself out there romantically.

When his phone started vibrating insistently in his breast pocket, Greg almost decided to let it go, but the police instinct in him reared his head.

“Greg?” the voice on the other end was controlled, but the edge of strong emotion underneath was almost palpable.

“John?” Greg hadn’t looked at the caller ID, assuming it was work.

“Pull over the cab. It’s important.”

“Sherlock?” Greg said tersely, the words to turn the cab around and head for Baker Street hovering on his lips.

“No. Dammit, Greg, stop the cab!”

“Pull over here,” Greg instructed the cab driver. When he started to grumble, he added, “Keep the meter running.” He turned his attention back to John. “What is it?”

“Are you on the way to the La Scala?” John asked. Now that Greg recognised the voice, he could hear John’s tension more clearly. He sounded frustrated, but in the way that meant it was with something other than Greg.

“Of course,” Greg said. “You set me up with someone, remember?”

“Yeah, I didn’t,” John said flatly. “Sherlock did.”

“What?” Greg replied, but his brain was already putting it together. “He stole your phone to set me up with someone?”

“Of course he did,” John replied.

“Jesus, that’s a new low even for him,” Greg replied. He frowned. “Since when does he go to that much effort to fuck with me?”

“He didn’t,” John said. He must have turned away because his voice was quieter as he added, “Don’t even think about it. Sit. Down.”

It was what Greg privately considered his Army voice; there was no room for argument.

_Sherlock._

“Fuck,” Greg whispered. “So what the hell is going on?”

“I’m not a hundred percent sure,” John said, and Greg could picture him staring daggers at Sherlock who would undoubtedly be slumped in his chair, rolling his eyes at this reaction. “But there’s only one person Sherlock would go to such lengths to embarrass or whatever.”

“His brother,” Greg breathed. “Jesus Christ.” He wiped one hand over his face.

“He won’t tell me for sure,” John said, “but I’m pretty good at reading him now and I reckon I’m right.”

“Right,” Greg said. “So I’m guessing you’ve called Mycroft, then?”

“No,” John said, “Sherlock deleted both your numbers out of my phone. That’s another reason I know it’s him. The only way to tell Mycroft that it’s actually a set-up is to go and tell him in person.”

“And I’m the closest,” Greg said with a sigh.

“I’m quite busy here,” John agreed. “We’ve decided we need some new boundaries in this flat, and there’s going to be an extensive discussion.”

“Lecture,” Sherlock corrected churlishly from the background.

“Yes,” John agreed calmly. “Look, can you go and tell Mycroft something?”

“Like what?” Greg said. “Is he even expecting me? Like, to talk about Sherlock? Or…what the hell did Sherlock tell him, anyway?”

“I have no idea,” John admitted. “If I find out, I’ll text you. But you’ll have to text me your number again.”

“Wait, how did you get this number?” Greg asked.

“Phoned the Yard, Donovan put me through,” John told him. “I explained it would piss Sherlock off if she did.”

“Of course you did,” Greg muttered. “Alright. I’m almost at La Scala anyway.”

“Sorry,” John said tightly.

“Not your fault,” Greg said. “But if you want to throw out an experiment or two for me, that’d be great.”

“Consider it done,” John said. “And good luck.”

“Yeah,” Greg said.

He hung up, looking out the window. He was only a block or two from La Scala now. Might as well walk, clear his head a bit before he had to figure out what Mycroft thought was happening and try to extract himself without blowing the actual story.

“Here, mate,” Greg said, handing the cabbie double fare. “Sorry about that.”

“Sounds like an interesting evening,” he said with a grin. “Good luck with that one.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Greg shot back, closing the door before the cab trundled off.

 _Fuck_.

He had two choices, really. Sherlock hadn’t deleted Mycroft’s number from _his_ phone; he could call Mycroft from here, keep it vague, and go home. Spend six months or so improving himself or whatever the hell John was on about right now. But the little voice in his head, the one he’d been ignoring for quite a while now, told him this could be an opportunity. It wasn’t so much an open door as a barely cracked window, but it was more than he’d had in a long time. Mycroft may have no idea why he was there, or even who he was waiting for. Greg would bet he wasn’t waiting for a date; it was unlikely he even knew his brother was behind whatever ruse had gotten him there at all. And the chances of him understanding that Greg thought it was a date would be miniscule.

Only the possibility of him knowing Greg _wanted_ it to be a date was smaller.

_Take a chance, Greg._

With a deep breath, Greg started towards the restaurant. Whatever Mycroft knew, if Greg showed up and Mycroft was there, he could at least tell him the story. Mycroft was astute enough to be able to read him, and if Greg showed up knowing he was being set up with Mycroft, it was unlikely he’d be able to hide it.

“I’m Greg Lestrade. I’m meeting someone,” Greg told the maître d' when he arrived. While he’d assumed there would be a reservation in either his name or John’s, now he wasn’t so sure what Sherlock had done.

“Is there a name for the reservation?” The beautifully presented young man didn’t quite give Greg the up and down but still managed to make the point that he was hardly their usual level of patron.

“Maybe Holmes?” he ventured, hating the tentative sound of his voice.

“Certainly,” the maître d' replied with a polite smile. “Your dining companion is already seated. This way, please.”

Greg gave a perfunctory smile which dropped as soon as the young man turned his back to show him into the restaurant. Sherlock had certainly done his research; this was exactly the type of place at which Mycroft would be right at home, and exactly the kind of place Greg would not. He felt himself withdraw a little, knowing his self-consciousness was a misplaced vestige of his youth. Outside he was a Detective Inspector, reasonably well dressed and definitely old enough to be here. Inside he was still that youth from the East End, painfully aware of his ill-fitting clothes and give-away accent.

“Here you are, sir,” the maître d' said, stopping beside a table in the middle of the restaurant. Greg couldn’t imagine Mycroft choosing such an exposed position; this would be another detail from Sherlock’s twisted mind.

“Thank you,” Greg murmured, his eyes on Mycroft. He stood as soon as he saw Greg arrive, but the flash of a frown was enough to tell Greg one thing for sure. Whatever Sherlock had told him to get him here, Greg was not part of the narrative.

“Hi, Mycroft.”

“Detective Inspector,” came the measured response.

They both sat at the same time, each eyeing the other off. Greg could sense Mycroft waiting for him to explain his presence. He cleared his throat, very aware of the restaurant around them. They were on a platform, practically on display, and he could imagine the whispers of people at his presence. Greg decided it was like a sticking plaster. Rip it off, get it over with.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but I was told this was a blind date.”

Greg lowered his voice, eyes on Mycroft. As he reached the end of his sentence, Mycroft’s eyes widened, the most natural reaction Greg could remember seeing from him.

“A blind date,” Mycroft repeated.

“Yep,” Greg said.

It only took a second before Mycroft’s brain worked out what Greg had needed John to explain. Greg could almost see the recognition in the slump of his shoulders.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured, his eye flashing.

“Yep,” Greg replied. He couldn’t tell if Mycroft’s clenched fist was a sign he was about to leave or not. Several moments passed, but Mycroft was still there when the sommelier arrived. To Greg’s surprise, the grey eyes that met his were uncertain. Was Mycroft wondering if he should order wine?

_It feels like agreeing to stay. Is he asking me if he should stay?_

Greg nodded at Mycroft, his heart beating hard at the choice he was making. “Chose something good,” he said, smiling encouragingly.

Mycroft spoke to the waiter in French. His deference increased even further and Greg presumed Mycroft had ordered something quite pricey. When he’d gone, Mycroft returned his attention to Greg. He had the definite impression the short conversation had allowed Mycroft to settle his surprise, and he seemed far calmer.

“Was there a purpose beyond our joint mortification?” Mycroft asked. There was a hint of dry humour there, curling around the edges of his tongue.

“No idea,” Greg replied. “I thought John set me up. Only found out half-way here Sherlock hacked his phone.”

“I imagine John would not be pleased,” Mycroft replied.

“Yeah, there was a definite discussion brewing when he called,” Greg said darkly.

Mycroft’s raised eyebrow was accompanied by enough of a smile to tell Greg he understood entirely. “I trust John has the matter in hand,” he said quietly.

“I’d say so,” Greg said.

Mycroft didn’t say anything, so Greg sat back. Things were going slightly better than he thought they might, if he’d had time to consider it. At least Mycroft was still here, and as uncomfortable as he looked, he didn’t appear to be ready to go. He was thinking about something, Greg could tell from the way he twisted that ring he wore and the calculating look in his eyes. But whatever it was wasn’t enough to make him leave. As they sat avoiding each other’s gaze and smiling politely when their eyes accidentally met, Greg wondered why they were even still there. Was it more about Mycroft, or about him?

The wine arrived before Greg could begin a conversation, and his eyes met Mycroft’s. They shared a wry smile before Mycroft turned his attention to the sommelier. More French from Mycroft, and Greg took the opportunity to watch the process. He looked confident as he approved the wine, the little ritual as exotic to Greg as it clearly was comfortable to him. Another small moment defining the difference between them.

“So, why did you think you were here?” Greg asked. The wine was excellent, and he was determined to savour it. Before Mycroft could answer his question the waiter arrived.

“We haven’t actually had a look at the menu,” Greg said apologetically.

“I could make a recommendation, if you would not be averse to my opinion,” Mycroft offered. “I dine here regularly.”

“Go for it,” Greg said.

Another opportunity as Mycroft and the waiter conversed in French; Greg grinned to himself at the seriousness of their discussion. Strange that he didn’t mind someone ordering for him, actually. When he was on a date with a woman, he was very conscious of the expectations. Waiters still asked him to order first, and the bill usually ended up in front of him, especially in nicer restaurants. It was a lot of pressure, figuring out how much he should be taking the lead and how much agency his date wanted for herself. Greg only usually knew where the line was when he’d crossed it.

Dating men was always different. Things felt less complicated in that respect. Greg was still pondering that idea when he realised Mycroft was looking at him and the waiter was gone.

“Sorry,” Greg said. “What were we talking about?”

“You asked why I thought I was here,” Mycroft replied.

“Yes,” Greg replied. “From your expression I’m guessing you weren’t expecting me.”

“I was not expecting you specifically,” Mycroft said. He coloured as he admitted, “My mother is…keen I should meet someone.”

“Right,” Greg said, trying to keep his voice neutral. This was not what he’d anticipated. “So you thought you’d been set up too?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Mycroft said. “My mother is convinced the right woman will ensure my future happiness.”

“Ah,” Greg said. “So she does this often, does she?”

“We have an agreement,” Mycroft admitted. “She limits herself to several appointments on my behalf per year, and I consent to attend.”

“Right,” Greg said again, not quite sure he was following the details. “So why did Sherlock think it would be a good idea to send me instead?”

It only took half a second of Mycroft’s expression for Greg to understand, but he still voiced the words carefully.

“So Sherlock thinks you’d rather date men,” Greg said. He didn’t say the second thing that had occurred to him. _Or does he think you’d rather date me?_

“He does,” Mycroft replied.

Greg was curious how accurate Sherlock was about his brother, but it didn’t seem necessary for him to know.

“Okay,” Greg said. “And your mother?”

“Would not be receptive to the idea, regardless of the truth of it.”

Greg nodded. “And why…” he started, but was interrupted by the arrival of their meal. It was announced in French, and Mycroft thanked the waiter. For all the ceremony of it, to Greg it looked very like the kind of meal his mother might have served – meat and three veg with gravy.

“Veal tenderloins,” Mycroft said quietly.

“Nice choice,” Greg said. “Thanks for ordering.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. They busied themselves with their meal for a few moments before Mycroft asked what Greg had been going to say.

He took a bite of his veal as he thought. Was now really the right time to ask why Sherlock would set Mycroft up with him? It would be awkward, probably. Better to hold that until later. After some wine, at least.

“Why do you have that agreement with your mother?” Greg asked, hoping Mycroft wouldn’t suspect he’d changed direction.

Mycroft considered his question for a few moments. “In matters of family,” he said, “I find the course of least resistance to be wise.”

Greg nodded. “I know what you mean,” he replied.

“Your family interfere in your life more than you would prefer?” Mycroft asked.

Interesting way of putting it, Greg thought. Certainly explains some of the dynamic Greg had witnessed.

“Not so much anymore,” Greg said. “But when I was younger I had a hard time with my father. He didn’t really like some of the choices I made. There were some pretty big fights, but I couldn’t,” he paused, surprised at how much the memory still affected him, “I couldn’t do what he wanted. Not the biggest thing. So I did everything else. Tried to make it less.” Greg stopped talking, filling his mouth so he’d stop the awkwardly phrased explanation of his late teen years.

“I believe I understand to some extent,” Mycroft said. “Reducing conflict as much as possible.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “And now that’s what we both do for a living.”

Mycroft started, then nodded. “I don’t believe I’ve ever made that connection,” he said. “It is accurate, however.” He took a neat mouthful of his fish, swallowing before continuing carefully, “Might I ask what it was your father wished you to do?”

“It was more of an idea of what he wanted my life to be like,” Greg said. “Marry a girl, have some kids, work in an office.”

“Ah,” Mycroft replied. “And to which part did you primarily object?”

“All of them,” Greg said. “I mean, I ended up getting married to a woman, but at the time I was dating men. I don’t think he really ever got over that. I wasn’t fussed about kids either way, but working in an office,” Greg shook his head. “Not for me.”

He took a bite of his meal, but didn’t miss the flicker of russet eyebrow as Mycroft registered what he’d said.

_He knows I’ve dated men now._

“He wanted you to follow in his footsteps?” Mycroft enquired.

“He wanted me to be better than he was,” Greg said. “His words, not mine.”

“And better meant more educated?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “Wanted me to get a bunch of O levels, maybe do accountancy or something.”

“And that didn’t appeal?” Mycroft ventured. He took another bite of his fish, and Greg wondered briefly if he was so careful with everything he put in his mouth.

_Jesus, Lestrade, rein it in!_

“Nah. I didn’t hate school, but I wasn’t that good at it, really,” Greg said, pulling himself back to the conversation at hand. It was strange talking about his life like this. “Left when I turned seventeen, signed up to the academy,” he said. “Pa wasn’t so happy.” The short sentence was quite a summary of the most explosive period in his life. Greg looked up, hoping he wasn’t embarrassing himself. Mycroft appeared to be listening, and nothing in his expression said he was bored of their conversation.

“Please, go on,” Mycroft said. “If you wish.”

Greg blinked. It was a long time since he’d shared these memories. “There were arguments,” he said. “I don’t think Pa really understood why I didn’t want to do what he wanted me to do. But I couldn’t go do that, spent years of my life chasing his dream.”

“Is your father still alive?” Mycroft asked.

“No,” Greg replied. “Died right after I graduated the academy.”

“So he did see some measure of your success,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “Now it’s just my sister and me. Mum died right after.”

“My condolences,” Mycroft murmured. “And your sister followed his wishes for her?”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “Sarah’s much more easy-going. And she wanted to go where he wanted her to go, so…”

They fell into silence again, the waiter returning to take their empty dinner plates as Mycroft poured the rest of the wine. Greg didn’t realise they’d drunk so much already. He was having a good time, he had to admit. Almost like a date but without the pressure of calling it as such.

“So if you end up on a few dates a year,” Greg said, “I’m guessing you never really click with anyone?”

“I do not,” Mycroft replied, leaning forward, wine glass in hand.

Greg nodded. He tilted his head, wondering if he was pushing too hard to ask, “Do you give them a chance?”

Mycroft was taken aback by the question, and Greg felt his heart speed up as he waited for the reply.

“I do not,” Mycroft admitted. He was frowning, a sure sign he was trying to find the words for something, so Greg waited. “Given my general lack of interest in finding a partner,” he continued tentatively, “and the unattractive prospect for anyone to become such, it seems cruel to encourage anyone more than necessary.”

“So these women, do they know your mum set up the blind dates?” Greg asked.

“I ensure the lay of the land is clear to all before we part ways,” Mycroft said. “As part of our agreement I am required to spend at least two hours in their company, making an effort at socially acceptable conversation.”

“You’re kidding,” Greg replied.

“I am not,” Mycroft said stiffly. His posture had straightened as though he was waiting for Greg to declare his mother an utterly reasonable person, and Mycroft a selfish monster.

“Wow, that must be excruciating,” Greg said.

Mycroft relaxed, though he still appeared a little suspicious. “It is not a comfortable evening,” he admitted. “Finding the balance between polite and leading someone on is difficult.”

Greg nodded. “I don’t know how you and your mum get on,” he said, “but I’m wondering, I mean, is that the best way to find someone?”

He didn’t expect an immediate response, and several minutes did pass. The waiter brought out dessert; some kind of chocolate and berry concoction for Greg, and a lemon tart for Mycroft.

“Perhaps we could pick up this conversation in a more private setting,” Mycroft said, picking up his fork.

“Of course,” Greg replied. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Not at all,” Mycroft replied, glancing around. “This is hardly the most secluded table here.”

“Your brother, I reckon,” Greg agreed.

“Yes, that matter will require some attention,” Mycroft mused.

“What are you going to tell him?” Greg asked. “I mean, John will have told him I know what’s going on, but he’s going to want to come and be smug at you anyway I’d guess.”

“He will,” Mycroft replied. “Anticipating the mortification is only half the fun. Seeing the evidence with his own eyes will be the main event, I suspect.”

A tiny burst of a plan blossomed in his brain, but Greg needed a bit more time to work on it. Besides, this was hardly the private place as Mycroft had pointed out, and he did have this dessert to finish off before they went anywhere.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised I didn't tag this particularly well when the first chapter was published. I wanted to keep one key details a surprise and while that part is not worthy of a tag, other aspects are, and they arise in this chapter.  
> Please check the tags again as I've added to them and there are some difficult thoughts and conversations in this and future chapters.  
> <3 Blue

The car was waiting for them of course, and Greg wondered what Mycroft was thinking as they rolled quietly through the streets. He’d put his phone to silent when he’d arrived at the restaurant, but now he pulled it out to check if anyone had contacted him. Only John was expected, but his phone showed nothing. Greg smirked, wondering if John was still berating Sherlock for whatever the point of this was.

“Something is amusing?” Mycroft asked quietly.

“John hasn’t got back to me,” Greg said, sliding his phone into his breast pocket. “Just wondering if he and Sherlock are still talking about this whole thing.”

Mycroft hummed. “I would not put it past John to spend the evening in pointed silence,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah, he’s not really a yeller long term,” Greg said. “Although I suspect he had a few choice words for your brother.”

Mycroft glanced sideways at Greg. “Don’t we all?”

The dry comment made Greg chuckle, and he felt the atmosphere around them ease. Not that it had felt awkward before, but that small moment of understanding about dealing with Sherlock somehow shifted them a little closer together. Closer to understanding, perhaps.

When they stopped, Greg was surprised to see a quiet and clearly expensive residential street.

“A flat?” he murmured. “I would have thought a wing of the Palace, at least.”

“Not when Her Majesty is home,” Mycroft replied with a smile. “This space is provided by my employer.”

Greg nodded, keeping his other comments to himself as they walked inside. The security was discreet but he doubted anyone would even get all the way up the outside steps if they weren’t on some kind of list. He hung back as Mycroft spoke to the receptionist before they took a set of stairs to the first floor.

“Lift broken?” Greg said with a grin. “I hate when that happens.”

Mycroft shot a gently exasperated look at Greg before letting him into the flat. “Hardly,” he replied. “It does not seem worth the wait for a single flight of stairs.”

“Yeah,” Greg agreed. He shed his coat, handing it to Mycroft before they stepped into a small living room. Much smaller than he would have imagined, but just as beautifully decorated. “Nice place,” he said.

“Thank you,” Mycroft replied. “The property belongs to my employer, as I said, but the decorating choices were mine.”

Greg nodded.

“Tea, coffee, or something stronger?” Mycroft asked.

“You really think tea will cut it given the conversation we’re about to have?” Greg asked with a grin.

“An excellent point,” Mycroft replied, walking to the small collection of bottles in one corner of the room. He hesitated before choosing a bottle. “Might I offer you some port?”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “Thanks.”

They sat on the sofa, opposite ends, and Greg was once again struck by Mycroft’s elegance as he passed a heavy tumbler across.

“So I’m guessing your brother thought this plan would be a twofer,” Greg said, sipping at the port. Jesus, it was good.

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft replied.

“A twofer,” Greg repeated. “Two for one.” He wiggled one finger between the two of them. “Embarrassing or otherwise inconveniencing both of us at once.”

“Ah,” Mycroft said. “If I wouldn’t be offending you might I suggest his interest in embarrassing me might be a stronger motivator than his interest in embarrassing you?”

“Oh, yeah,” Greg replied easily. “Definitely.” He grinned, relieved to see Mycroft looking amused at his response. “Look, I don’t want you to have to explain anything more than you want to. Feel free to just leave most of what we started talking about. But I do have a bit of a plan that might make this backfire a bit on your brother while also making a point to your mother. I might need a little more context though before I know if it’s a terrible idea or not.”

He watched Mycroft, not entirely sure how his proposal would be received. Did he want them to come here to agree to never mention this again? But it was only when Greg started talking about his mother and other family history that he suggested they move in the first place. Why wouldn’t he have just dropped Greg home if that was the case?

Mycroft nodded slowly. “If I may summarise a long difficult history,” he said, “my mother and father are openly disappointed not to have grandchildren. This has been tempered in recent years as my brother and I have shown little to no interest, and as we passed a certain age their expectations in that regard have faded. Rather than accepting her sons as single men, however, my mother instead shifted her focus to finding partners for us.”

“Wives or partners?” Greg asked, wondering if Mycroft would notice the distinction.

“Wives,” Mycroft amended with a nod. “My brother flat out refused. The result is a highly strained relationship in which he refuses to have more to do with them than absolutely necessary, and in my case, a mother with little else to occupy herself. I thought it better to take the situation into my own hands as it were and come to an agreement with her.”

Greg hummed his understanding. “That’s why you agreed to go on the dates.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied.

“But she doesn’t know you’re not interested in them,” Greg said.

“She holds out hope,” Mycroft said. He hesitated before adding, very quietly, “She will always be disappointed as long as she invites women.”

Greg nodded, heart leaping at the trust Mycroft was placing in him. “You don’t have to answer this,” he said, hoping he wasn’t overstepping, “but why not tell her?”

Mycroft took his time replying, and when he did open his mouth, Greg would not have been surprised to hear him changing the subject.

“I am a very private person,” he said carefully. “Should my mother be scouting for male partners on my behalf she would hardly be subtle about it, and…” he trailed off, cheeks pink as he raised his glass.

“And then the whole world would know,” Greg finished. Mycroft nodded, meeting his eyes for the barest second before looking across the room.

“Thank you for trusting me, then,” Greg said.

“It seemed relevant to our conversation,” Mycroft replied.

“Well, in that case you probably won’t want to hear my plan,” Greg said, “as it’s kind of reliant on your mother finding out.”

Mycroft didn’t move until the words from his mouth crept across the space, almost guilty in their plea. “Perhaps you would tell me. Please.”

Greg nodded, a sudden lump forming in his throat. “Well, he said, “basically, you and I go to Sherlock and thank him for setting us up. We’ll pretend I couldn’t bear to tell you I’d found out it was a set up, and you didn’t ask, but we got on so well we decided to go on another date.” Mycroft’s eyes were wide, but he hadn’t interrupted so far. “So we’ll get Sherlock to think, I dunno, that you thought your mother had set us up? Or that you suspected it was some kind of prank by him but you didn’t want him to have the last laugh, so you leaned into the whole thing.”

Greg frowned. “I guess a lot of this will have to come to Sherlock via John, or with me. The point is, we don’t let Sherlock get the satisfaction of seeing us awkward and annoyed at him.”

“You are suggesting we give him the impression the blind date was mutually pleasing?” Mycroft said.

“Basically, yeah,” Greg replied. “I mean, not forever, but if we make it seem as though we both had a good enough time to go on another date, he might realise it didn’t work.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “It will, however, confirm his suspicion that dating men is…”

“Something you’re interested in?” Greg asked, and Mycroft nodded, cheeks pink.

“Well, that’s the drawback,” Greg said. “Though it would do the same for me. Although that would be more of a risk for you, of course.”

Mycroft’s mouth dropped open. “You still date men?” he whispered.

“I date both,” Greg replied. “It’s not that widely known, but I bet Sherlock would make sure everyone knew once he was aware of it.” He shrugged, self-conscious under Mycroft’s sharp gaze.

“And that doesn’t bother you?” Mycroft asked cautiously.

Greg sipped at his drink. “I wouldn’t say it was something I’d choose,” he said, “but it seems like it would be a small sacrifice for the benefit it would bring.”

Mycroft stared. “Forgive me for asking,” he said slowly, “but what benefit would it bring you?”

“Well I’d get to see Sherlock looking annoyed, but in a good way,” Greg said. “I know that’s not all that an attractive a thing, but honestly, a bit of payback wouldn’t hurt.”

“Agreed,” Mycroft said.

“And,” Greg continued, his heart pounding, “I think he might need a bit of notice that he’s being pretty harsh when he does this kind of thing.”

Mycroft nodded. “And you believe my brother would not explain his part in the matter?” he said.

“You know him a lot better than I do,” Greg said. “He already knows that I know, but how likely do you think it is that he would admit to you that he was setting you up to fail? I mean, if it’s backfired this spectacularly, I doubt he’d want to be given credit for it.”

“True,” Mycroft mused. “And the potential for future references to his part would be many.”

“And often, “Greg added with a grin. “So, so often.”

“He would not be pleased to be credited with my happiness,” Mycroft said.

“Or mine,” Greg replied with a grin.

“There would still be the issue with my mother,” Mycroft said, his mood shifting. “My brother may overcome his irritation to call her and point out the futile nature of her endeavour if I have a…partner.” His voice seemed to stutter over the last word. He swallowed. “Besides, it would hardly be in character for me to continue with her charade if I was…”

“True,” Greg said, picking up the conversation. “That was why I thought you might not be interested. I mean, if she really does think you’re happy, would that make a difference?” He took a deep breath. “What’s her motivation for all this, if not to make you happy?”

Mycroft stared at Greg as though the idea hadn’t ever occurred to him. “I believe it would bring her great satisfaction to plan a wedding,” he said finally.

“That’s her reason?” Greg said, raising his eyebrows. It sounded a bit thin to him.

“I have always believed so,” Mycroft said slowly.

“So you’ve never asked?” Greg said.

“Never,” Mycroft replied.

“Not even at the start?”

“The start was the year I turned eighteen, when she was searching for a wife and mother to her grandchildren,” Mycroft said. “We only made our current agreement several years ago, when Sherlock cut off contact.”

Greg nodded. It was pretty incredible to him, that two people could fail to communicate so spectacularly. Not that he was one to throw stones in that particular arena, of course.

“When I proposed this agreement, she was amenable,” Mycroft said. “We negotiated the details, but I never asked why she was so insistent, even though the likely hood of grandchildren had faded into all but impossibility.”

“So do you think it’s possible she wants you to be happy?” Greg asked. He winced. “I mean, you don’t have to answer that.”

“I believe she wants me to be successful,” Mycroft said slowly. “And the measure of that in ones’ personal life is invariably a life partner.”

Greg nodded. Jesus, that sounded grim. “Okay,” he said. “Well, I guess it’s all moot since this won’t work without her knowing I’m a man.”

Mycroft nodded, thought his eyes were thoughtful. “But you would be open to such a plan?” he said, so quietly Greg couldn’t even be sure he’d spoken. His eyes rested on Greg, and a flutter of something spun through Greg’s groin.

“Yeah, “Greg said. “I mean…yeah.”

“And you are proposing we speak with my brother, and continue this ruse for a period of…how long precisely?”

Greg blinked. It sounded a lot like Mycroft was actually considering this. “Um, I hadn’t thought about it. Maybe a couple of months? We could pretend to go on a few dates, then agree it’s too hard with our respective jobs and stuff.” He shrugged, not wanting to give away how appealing the idea of dating Mycroft actually was.

“And how would this help my mother in the long term?” Mycroft asked.

“I dunno,” Greg said, feeling a little foolish. “I guess I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

Mycroft sat for a while, and Greg didn’t interrupt him. He had his ‘solving the world’s problems’ expression going and there was no interrupting that.

“If this was to work,” Mycroft said, and Greg blinked at the tone in his voice and then again at the words themselves, “I believe it would need to have a longer term view.”

“Longer term?” Greg repeated.

“I believe if we were to see each other briefly, my mother would simply pick up where she left off when we parted ways,” Mycroft said quietly. “Thus placing me in the situation I have been wishing to avoid.”

Greg nodded. “Sure,” he said, ignoring the disappointment pooling in his belly. It made perfect sense.

“However,” Mycroft continued, “should our…relationship continue for a longer period of time,” he hesitated, “and then cease, I believe I could convince her to…”

“Cease?” Greg asked quietly. He didn’t say anything. There were too many levels of discomfort in him, and he needed to try and sort them out. Why didn’t this sit well with him? He didn’t like the idea of breaking up with Mycroft – well that was something to put aside for the moment. He didn’t like the idea of lying to Mycroft’s family. Or Mycroft, when it came to it. But those things were peripheral to the main thing. The main thing was that all this made him inexplicably sad. The pretence of it, just to be able to live your life.

And speaking of pretence, Mycroft would have to act sad when they broke up. Too hurt to continue to date. Too hurt maybe to think that he could go out and meet someone.

Maybe too damaged to think someone out there would want him.

Greg blinked. That was probably a bit of a projection, he told himself. His own divorce was pretty far back now – he was measuring in years – but some things were too much a part of who he was to shake off easily. It didn’t mean Mycroft felt that way, and he certainly wouldn’t if he and Greg had been pretending to date.

Pretending to date.

Greg swallowed. He hadn’t clocked it as being so much of a problem until the phrase dropped into his brain right now. Was he really so invested that he’d willingly properly date Mycroft to help him out?

Shaking his head, Greg forced himself to focus on Mycroft.

_Just be honest, Greg._

“I can see what you mean,” Greg said slowly. “And I want to help you out, Mycroft. He took a deep breath, fully intending to say something along the lines of, ‘but I don’t want you getting hurt.’

Instead he said, “We’ll have to make sure we’re on the same page before we see your brother.”

Mycroft had clearly been expecting the former, because at Greg’s words he frozen. “I beg your pardon?” he whispered.

“If anyone will see through something that’s not real, it’s Sherlock,” Greg said.

“True,” Mycroft replied. He swallowed hard. “Are you sure? I feel you should take some time to consider the ramifications of this decision.”

Greg shrugged. “There’s a good chance your brother’s going to drop in on one or both of us tomorrow,” he pointed out. “So we should decide now.”

Mycroft looked at him again, his expression complicated. “Very well,” he said, “where should we begin?”

Greg swallowed. “Well I guess a broad outline would be a good place to start. Are we going with ‘we decided to take it slow but committed’ or ‘we fell into bed together’?” Greg watched Mycroft’s hand pause halfway to his mouth and took pity on the stricken expression. “Kidding,” he said. “It’d be tough figure out how to fake quite that much.”

Mycroft relaxed, though no entirely; Greg wondered if he was thinking about it more as well. “I believe taking it slow, as you put it, would be far more in my nature than…the alternative,” he said.

“Agreed,” Greg said. “It’ll be easier to maintain for a longer time, too.”

“Speaking of which,” Mycroft said, “would you prefer to set a time frame now?”

Greg considered. “I don’t really date much,” he said, “and I’m not, I dunno, itching to get this over with, I guess. I think what I’m saying is that if we’re going to do it, I think we should be at least a little bit flexible. Who knows how things will go?”

Mycroft nodded cautiously. “So you would not find it restrictive to limit your social engagements to platonic relationships?” he asked.

“Not really,” Greg said. He looked at Mycroft. “Although, if we’re meant to be seeing each other, we’ll need to spend more time together.”

Mycroft nodded. “Given our schedules, it would not be particularly often,” he said. “My hours are unpredictable.”

“Mine too,” Greg said. He grinned. “That’s why we’re taking it slow, probably.”

“True,” Mycroft replied. He hesitated. “Perhaps we could begin with evenings here on an ad hoc basis.”

“Sure,” Greg said. “That sounds like a good plan.”

“You would be welcome to bring whatever you prefer to occupy yourself,” Mycroft said. “And my library and entertainment system would be at your disposal.”

Greg stared. “Okay,” he said, “but I wouldn’t mind spending some of that time with you, if you’re not saving the world or whatever.”

Mycroft stared right back. “Certainly,” he said, which was his default polite answer when something baffled him. Greg had heard it plenty of times as he used the extra seconds to think. “Do not feel obliged,” he continued.

“Nah, you’re good company,” Greg said. “Besides, even if we’re just reading our books together that’s good company, I reckon.”

Mycroft stull looked vaguely surprised. “Very well,” he said. “Surely details of our evenings would not be under scrutiny.”

“I don’t know your mother at all,” Greg replied, “but I think a carefully crafted smirk and raised eyebrow would insinuate enough to stop your brother asking more than once.”

Mycroft blushed, actually turned quite pink as he shot an exasperated look at Greg. “Yes, thank you, I will bear that in mind,” he said. “Though I doubt that would encompass ‘going slow’.”

“Not right away,” Greg said. He grinned, feeling silly. “I might not even kiss on the first date, Mycroft.”

“Noted,” Mycroft replied.

“Okay, well that’s probably enough to be getting on with,” Greg said. He glanced at his watch. “I should go. How about we keep in touch about your brother, and if he hasn’t come to see at least one of us tomorrow we can drop into Baker Street tomorrow night and let him know what happened?”

Mycroft nodded. “What did happen?” he said.

“What do you mean?” Greg asked.

“What precisely did we say this evening to have decided to…see each other again?” Mycroft asked carefully.

Greg’s heart tugged. Based on that questions alone he would bet good money Mycroft had never been in that position. Not surprising since he spent all his ‘dates’ trying to make sure the other person was not actually interested in him.

“Probably,” Greg said, careful not to sound patronising, “we recognised each other. You suspected your mother had finally worked out that she would need to try something different. I didn’t want to embarrass you, so I didn’t tell you it was a set up by Sherlock, and I just went along with your assumptions. We got along quite well, talked about the usual things, but when desert was finished I started the awkward conversation about whether we might want to do this again.”

“What did you say?” Mycroft whispered.

Greg had the distinct impression this was more important to Mycroft than he was letting on.

“I said that I’d been worried about how you’d react when you saw it was me,” Greg said, finding words that fit the truth of the evening and the story they were concocting. It would make it easier to remember, but he also felt a little like this was the opportunity to tell Mycroft something true under the guise of their plan. “But,” he continued, “that I was really relieved when you ordered some wine. That I was impressed that you ordered in French, and we talked more easily than I imagined we would. I would say that I could feel something different between us, just a tiny thing but it gave me hope that we might have something between us. And that I would like to explore that, if you felt the same.”

Mycroft nodded. “And what did I say?” he asked.

Greg smiled, hoping it was gentle and encouraging. “I don’t know,” he said. “What did you say?”

Mycroft sat for a few seconds before drawing a sharp breath and blurting, “I agreed, though I was unsure if our conflicting schedules would make a meaningful connection possible.” He looked uncertainly at Greg as he added, “You assured me that we could take things slowly and I could request we cease at any point.”

Greg smiled. “Sounds like me,” he said. “Did we agree to another time?” He wanted to encourage Mycroft to take on some of the story-telling, but another small part of him wondered if this was what Mycroft would actually do had the evening ended in that way.

“No,” Mycroft replied. “Our schedules were uncertain for the rest of the week. We agreed to be in contact tomorrow in order to make a tentative time to speak with Sherlock with a view to potentially having dinner afterwards.”

Greg nodded. “Why did we want to speak with Sherlock?” he said. “You don’t know that he set us up yet, remember?”

Mycroft nodded. “Of course. I simply wanted to ensure he was aware of our arrangement so he did not make a scene should he discover it while he was attending one of your…scenes.”

“No scene at the scene?” Greg asked with a grin. Jesus, this was really happening. They were plotting, if not against Sherlock, then behind his back, for sure.

“Precisely.”

“How considerate of you,” Greg said.

“I can be so, yes,” Mycroft said with a smile to match Greg’s.

“Okay, so we’ll go around to their place tomorrow evening if Sherlock hasn’t come knocking,” Greg said.

“Agreed,” Mycroft replied. He hesitated. “Have you considered what you will tell John regarding this?”

Greg shook his head. “I don’t know where he’ll stand about Sherlock. I know he doesn’t tell Sherlock everything about things that don’t concern him. But if Sherlock’s driving him nuts he might blurt out the truth.”

Mycroft nodded. “And you would have no qualms about keeping him out of this particular loop?”

“Mycroft Holmes, are you asking me to choose between you and John?” Greg asked with a grin.

“I would do no such thing,” Mycroft protested.

“I know,” Greg said. “Look, there’s a chance John will suspect something, but I know how to tell him not to ask questions, and he won’t.”

“Very well,” Mycroft replied, “but let the record show that it is your faith in him and not mine.”

“You don’t trust John?” Greg said, surprised.

“On the contrary, I trust him to put my brother’s wellbeing above all else,” Mycroft shot back. “And if it came down to it, I believe he would sell us both out in favour of Sherlock.”

“That’s a good point,” Greg said. “I can’t control his suspicions, though. It might just have to be a variable we deal with as we go.”

Mycroft nodded. “So we are agreed, then?” he asked tentatively.

“I think so,” Greg replied. “As long as we’re communicating, I think it’ll be fine.”

“And you have no concerns about revealing this side of yourself,” Mycroft checked again. “Your work and family…”

“It’s fine,” Greg said again. “Honestly, Mycroft.” His heart twisted as Mycroft’s brow creased, his uncertainty radiating from every line of his hunched shoulders.

“I shall send Anthea over tomorrow,” Mycroft said finally. “There will be paperwork for you to complete if you are to be a regular visitor here.”

“No problem,” Greg replied. He let out a breath. That had been a lot. Now it was up to both of them to see if they could pull it off.


	3. Chapter 3

“What?” Sherlock whispered. His eyes, previous lazy and confident, were suddenly wide as he looked between his brother and Greg. His gaze sharpened and he frowned.

“We wanted to let you know,” Greg repeated. “We figured it was better to tell you than have you make a fuss somewhere.”

“Or break into a top secret facility to garner my attention,” Mycroft said.

Greg would normally have suppressed the smile that blossomed at Mycroft’s dry sense of humour, but today he didn’t have to. Instead he directed his amusement at Mycroft, allowing it to show as he never usually did. Though he was looking at Mycroft he could sense Sherlock still looking between the two of them, as though he hoped to understand what was going on.

“Hey,” John said, coming in from the kitchen. He frowned. “What’s going on?”

“These two have decided to start,” Sherlock took a deep breath, “dating.” He spat out the word as though it left a foul taste in his mouth.

“Right,” John said, sipping at his tea. His eyes were busy, trying to keep watch on all three of the others in the room at once.

“We figured it would be better to tell Sherlock and let him have his tantrum in private,” Greg added.

“Okay,” John said, looking more closely at Greg. His body language changed, shifting into the wary stance of Captain Watson. He could obviously sense something was going on, but Greg was banking on him not saying anything that might set Sherlock off.

“After our unexpected meeting last night, we had a good time,” Greg said. “And Mycroft agreed to come out to dinner again with me tonight.”

He grinned, watching a flicker of surprise come over Mycroft’s face at the declaration. “Of course I did,” he said quietly.

“Really, brother?” Sherlock said, ignoring Greg. He started saying something in French, but Greg interrupted.

“You do know I understand you, right?” he said bluntly, calling Sherlock’s bluff. “I mean, my name is pretty French. So if you want to express your disappointment, might as well do it in English.” He nodded at John. “I’m sure John would appreciate knowing what was going on.”

“I would love to know what’s going on,” John said, looking around the room.

“I was merely asking Mycroft how he thought our mother would react to this,” Sherlock said, eyes locked on his brother.

“I know you were,” Greg lied, edging closer to Mycroft. “And we’ve already talked about it.” He sent positive, strong vibes to Mycroft as he said, “She’s obviously going to find out at some point. If you do happen to speak with her, feel free to mention it.”

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open, then closed again as he pressed his lips together. “I don’t believe it,” he said shortly.

“You don’t have to,” Greg said calmly. “This isn’t high school, we’re not going to kiss to prove it.” He nodded at John. “We’re just doing you the courtesy of letting you know what’s going on so you don’t get a shock if you come into the Yard one day and deduce it.”

Sherlock opened his mouth again, but Greg, who felt his words getting shorter and sharper, suddenly had enough. Sherlock was only going to be rude and cruel, and he didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want Mycroft to hear it, either.

“Anyway, we have a reservation,” Greg said, taking Mycroft’s hand, “so we’ll see you later.”

He walked them out of the flat, making sure Mycroft preceded him down the stairs and out into the waiting car.

“We have a reservation?” Mycroft repeated once the car was moving. He was flexing his hand, the hand Greg had dropped while he opened the car door.

“Of course not,” Greg said, pretending not to notice Mycroft’s hand. “But I will buy us dinner if you like.”

Mycroft nodded automatically. “You were more forceful than I anticipated at Baker Street,” he said carefully.

“Yeah,” Greg replied. He suddenly realised his heart was pounding. Clenching his fists stopped the shaking in his hands, but only just. “I hadn’t planned on it.” He sighed. “I just…I didn’t want to stand there and listen to Sherlock being rude about you. Or us. I figured we’d done what we set out to do, best to let him sit on it for a bit.”

Mycroft nodded again. Greg was about to apologise when Mycroft said quietly, “Thank you.”

Greg let out a rush of air. “You’re welcome,” he replied. They sat in comfortable silence until the car dropped them both at Greg’s flat. “How long until he calls your mother, do you think?” Greg asked.

“He will not need to,” Mycroft said. “She will call me tonight, as she always does.”

Greg blinked. “Right,” he said. “Well if you’d rather go home, have some privacy for that call…”

“Trying to escape from our date?” Mycroft said with a smile. “How unchivalrous, Gregory.”

Greg smiled. “The Indian up the street’s really good,” he said. “If you’re okay to sit at my very tiny table. And I can go into the bedroom or whatever if you need privacy.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said. “That’s very considerate.”

They walked in silence the few minutes to the Indian restaurant. Small talk about the football on the television and the likelihood of another election this year and their food was ready. Greg was amazed it was so comfortable, standing in his run down hallway looking for the right key as Mycroft stood beside him, waiting and holding their takeaway.

“What time will she call?” Greg asked, pushing the door open and allowing Mycroft in first.

“Whenever suits her,” Mycroft replied. He glanced at his pocket watch. “In truth, I expect her call–”

The phone rang and Greg would have grinned at the coincidence had Mycroft’s face suddenly not fallen. “Excuse me,” he said, walking into the living room. Greg hesitated before picking up the food and taking it into the kitchen. He portioned it out onto plates, having no idea how much Mycroft would eat but betting it wasn’t much. He’d just filled a couple of glasses with water when Mycroft returned, coat gone and face grave.

“Well?” Greg asked apprehensively.

“As I expected,” Mycroft said quietly. “She was not pleased I failed to meet the woman she selected.”

Greg nodded. “Did you tell her…” he trailed off, not entirely sure how to finish that sentence.

“I told her a connection was evident with my dining partner,” Mycroft said. “When she realised it was not Anna, she was confused. I believe she thought it was a joke of some description when I explained your role.”

Greg nodded. “So she thinks it was a coincidence?”

“I am not sure,” Mycroft admitted. “I believe she was side-tracked by the more surprising aspect of my news and did not consider the ‘how’ so much as the ‘who.’”

“Right,” Greg said slowly. “So you ended badly?”

“I believe I will hear from her tomorrow,” Mycroft said. “By then she will have considered the ‘how’, and almost certainly have determined it was my fault.”

Greg snorted. “Sorry,” he said, realising he really didn’t know enough about Mycroft’s family to make that kind of response.

“Not at all,” Mycroft replied.

“So what about your brother?” Greg asked. “No, actually,” he said, “wait here a sec.”

He disappeared into the living room, hoping Mycroft wouldn’t leave as he set up his TV.

“Come on,” he said, picking up his plate and water. Mycroft followed until they were sitting on his sofa, the first episode of “Fawlty Towers” ready to go. “Nothing like some classic British comedy,” he said. “Forget your family for a while, let’s just be grateful we don’t stay in places like this when we’re abroad.”

“What makes you think I don’t?” Mycroft asked.

Greg did not apologise for the snort that came in reaction this time. “I’m pretty sure the last time I was abroad I did stay in a place exactly like this,” he said. “But I’m not right this minute, which is enough to be grateful for.”

They settled in, Greg very aware of how Mycroft slowly relaxed into the evening. They weren’t quite touching on his small sofa, but it was warmer where Mycroft’s body was close. Greg ignored how comforting it was to have someone to sit beside.

Several episodes later, Greg sighed. “It’s getting late,” he said, “and we’re not really at the sleepover stage yet.”

“Hardly,” Mycroft replied, though he did smile a little.

“Right, well, keep me in the loop,” Greg said with a responding grin. “If I’m free I can pop around if you need to talk strategy about your brother or your mother.”

Mycroft nodded. “We’ve talked extensively about my family,” he said. “Is yours not…”

Greg shrugged. “Long story,” he said. “Maybe next time?”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied.

They walked out to the door. It did feel like a date; the awkwardness of not kissing was in the air as Mycroft took his coat from the hook and buttoned it up to his throat.

“Good evening,” Mycroft said.

“Good night,” Greg said. The last thing he saw before the door closed was Mycroft smiling at him.

Well, that was an interesting day, he thought to himself as he cleaned up their meal. He was relieved Mycroft’s mother had called tonight, at least they wouldn’t have to lie awake and wonder when she would call and what she would say. It sounded pretty standard. Now they would just have to wait until tomorrow, and see what she said when she’d had a good night’s sleep.

+++

The next day passed slowly, paperwork only enough to keep his hands busy without his brain having to pay too much attention. It wasn’t often a homicide detective wished for a new case, but at least it would have forced Greg to get out of his head. Every time his phone buzzed he jumped, unable to concentrate until he’d checked the screen.

But Mycroft’s mother – why hadn’t he asked her name? – remained resolutely absent.

He lasted until almost four before messaging Mycroft. The swiftness of his reply made it clear he was also waiting by the phone. His mother had not called, and Greg’s brain started racing. When his phone buzzed again almost immediately, Greg assumed it was Mycroft again, but instead John’s number flashed up. Hesitating, Greg thumbed a reply before calling out to Sally. It was close to the end of the day, and one of the benefits of being the boss was he could take off early sometimes. Even if that sometimes was to meet a mate at a bar and lie about his fake gay relationship that he kind of wished was real.

_How do you end up in these things, Greg?_

“Hey,” Greg greeted John. The pub was convenient to both their offices and Baker Street, and they were practically regulars now.

“I’m guessing you need this,” John replied, sliding the pint across the table. “Because you’re about to tell me what the hell is going on.”

Greg took the beer, drinking a good amount before replacing it on a coaster. “Hi,” he said pointedly. “I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

John looked steadily at him.

“Captain Watson doesn’t work on me,” Greg told him with a grin.

The look didn’t shift for a few seconds, then John spoke. “Something’s going on,” he said, the flat tone just as clearly broadcasting his displeasure as if he’d been audibly annoyed.

“You mean me and Mycroft?” Greg asked.

“Don’t play dumb, mate,” John said, a sharp edge to his tone. “Sherlock’s basically done nothing but be a grumpy git, and I need to know what’s going to happen.”

“Surprisingly enough, this has nothing to do with Sherlock,” Greg said. When John snorted derisively, Greg leaned forward, looking at him intently. “Seriously, John. What’s going on between me and Mycroft might have started because of Sherlock, but apart from that the only reason we even talked about him was because Mycroft was worried what might happen if he found out on his own.” Greg picked up his beer, adding, “That’s why we came over last night.”

He drank, watching John process this.

“So you showed up, didn’t tell Mycroft what was going on and somehow ended up on an actual date,” John said, scepticism dripping from his every syllable.

“Something like that,” Greg said. He sat with the silence, refusing to be drawn into filling it with more details.

“And whatever agreement you’ve made,” John said finally, when it became clear Greg wasn’t going to add anything, “it’s not about getting back at Sherlock.”

Greg raised one eyebrow. “When have I ever tried to get back at Sherlock?” he asked. “Or Mycroft, for that matter.”

John frowned, thinking about that. “Okay,” he said. He looked at Greg again. “I know there’s something weird here, though. And Sherlock knows, which means he’s going to be a nightmare to live with until he works it out.”

Greg nodded. “I think he might be,” Greg said. “But I’d say, ‘until he accepts it,’ because there’s nothing going on. Except that his prank on his brother and I backfired pretty spectacularly.”

“Right,” John said. From the expression on his face he didn’t quite believe it, but to Greg’s relief he let it go. Their conversation drifted, but when John offered to get a third round in, Greg declined.

“Gotta head off,” he said.

“Hot date?” John asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, with my washing,” Greg said. “If I want a clean shirt for tomorrow, I’ve gotta get on it.”

“Pretty sure Mycroft can sort that for you,” John said. “Might as well get some benefit from whatever you’re doing.”

Greg froze. John wasn’t usual a mean person, and the bitter tone in his voice wasn’t like him, either. From the flush he could see and the way John was avoiding his eyes he realised it too, but he wasn’t exactly clamouring to apologise.

Carefully, Greg slid from the booth. “The benefit is spending time with Mycroft,” he said quietly. “For the record.” He nodded at John. “See you later.”

Wrecking his friendship with John was not part of the plan, and Greg hoped things would calm down when John (and Sherlock) had time to get used to the new situation. Once he arrived home Greg put it out of his head. He really did have an alarmingly high pile of washing to be done. He might be able to get through another couple of days, but as he loaded everything in the washing machine and turned it on, Greg admitted to himself the truth of his motivation. Who knew what time Mycroft might have free over the weekend, and he wanted to be available.

Shaking his head, Greg moved on to address the dishes. Keeping busy was good; his hands needed something to do while his conscious brain tried to keep the more excitable portion under control. He’d only seen Mycroft yesterday. It was too soon to call, surely. He knew Mycroft hadn’t heard from his mother, and he assumed Mycroft would get in touch if she did call him again.

As he set the clean wet saucepan on the hob to dry, Greg wondered who Mycroft would normally talk to about this stuff. About his mother’s interference in his life, and the fact it was easier to go along with such a futile scheme than to be honest with her about who he was. Not that Greg could throw stones when it came to that specific instance. His ex-wife hadn’t known he still fancied men while they were married. He was fairly sure she socked his previous relationships away as part of Greg’s ‘wild phase’ and thought no more about it.

If Mycroft had nobody to talk to, Greg could understand how much easier it was to just maintain the status quo. Even so, it couldn’t have been easy. Watching the bubbles drain away, Greg felt a rush of satisfaction that he could be there for Mycroft right now. This wouldn’t be easy on him. His mother sounded like a difficult woman, and Mycroft was giving her two big things to deal with at once. Greg didn’t know if her absence was a good thing or not.

Impulsively, he grabbed his phone and shot off a quick message to Mycroft before he could talk himself out of it.

_Hope your day was okay. Let me know if you hear from anyone, or if you need to talk. – GL_

He didn’t expect a response, so Greg plugged his phone in by his bed as he ate, grateful he’d bothered to cook and freeze a bunch of meals recently. The football was a rerun, which meant he didn’t fuss about turning it off before it was over. A quick wash of his dishes – no point starting tomorrow with dirty dishes again – and he glanced at his phone as he walked past to the bathroom.

_Shit._

Mycroft’s reply sat waiting, timestamped only two minutes after the original message. Greg’s heart fluttered. Thumbing the screen open, Greg read Mycroft’s words.

_My mother remains resolutely silent._

Greg hesitated. He wasn’t sure how to reply. There was nothing here to tell him if that was a good thing or not.

_Is that good, do you think?_

The bubbles started immediately, and he sank to sit on the bed, his teeth relegated to less important than this message.

_Unfortunately not._

Greg hesitated.

_Do you want to talk?_

The bubbles jumped and disappeared, jumping again before the message appeared.

_Perhaps tomorrow evening?_

Greg replied immediately.

_Sure. At your place?_

_I will send a car. 6pm?_

_At the Yard, yep._

_Looking forward to it._

Greg winced. That last line was a bit off, all things considered. It might be Friday tomorrow, but it was hardly a date. Not really. He hoped Mycroft might realise what he meant.

_Looking forward to seeing you, whatever the circumstances._


	4. Chapter 4

The next day was a whirlwind of a messy new scene and the associated beginnings of that case. A couple of the younger coppers were a bit pale, and Greg made sure he had a word with them. This kind of case was never easy, and as he watched a constable bite his lip to hold back tears (and possibly vomit), Greg wondered when he’d become so immune. The thought was fleeting, but the gloomy feeling remained just under the surface. Fortunately for Greg there was enough to go on with without needing him to stay late. They’d put in requests for warrants, a bunch of uniforms on the afternoon shift were knocking door to door, and there was never any rushing forensics. If something big broke Greg would get a call, but unless that happened he could go.

And go he did, the second the clock ticked over to six o’clock. The car was waiting, as he anticipated – it had taken him all of two minutes to get downstairs and he couldn’t imagine a car from Mycroft being anything but precisely on time, ever.

Arriving at Mycroft’s building, Greg hesitated. The security would require some kind of authorisation, surely? As he tossed up waiting and calling Mycroft, a buzzer sounded at the top of the stairs. Greg pulled open the door, half surprised it gave. The entrance was as cavernous as he remembered and Greg made a conscious effort to keep his footsteps quiet on the tiles as he crossed to the desk.

“Mr. Holmes is upstairs,” the receptionist told him, returning his ID and smiling with exactly the right mix of professionalism and warmth.

“Thanks,” Greg replied. He took the stairs, smiling to himself at the memory of their conversation last time he was here. There was barely enough time to take a deep breath between knocking on Mycroft’s door and it swinging open. _Was he waiting?_

“Good evening,” Mycroft greeted him. His jumper looked soft; Greg pushed down the urge to reach out and touch, reminding himself there was an actual body under the forest green fuzz. _Not actually helpful._ “Please, come in.”

Greg stepped through, a strange kind of thrill rolling through him at the familiarity of the sight of Mycroft’s flat. Why was that so affecting? Something about knowing what he was arriving to… “Thanks,” he said, aware it had taken him a couple of beats too long to respond.

“A difficult day?” Mycroft asked, the door closing behind him. He took Greg’s coat, hanging it beside his own.

_No, not really._

Greg was about to open his mouth and voice the words when he realised they weren’t true. They were the words he’d say to anyone who asked, but Mycroft wasn’t just anyone. He swallowed them down, really thinking about the question. Remembering the scene, the look on his team’s face as they’d blocked off whichever parts of themselves would respond as human beings, brought a bunch of stuff back to the surface.

“Yeah,” he said. It took a second of blinking for him to realise Mycroft was waiting. Gentle grey eyes sat patiently on his face without judgement or impatience. “Yeah, it kind of was.”

The admission brought him closer to tears than he expected, and he swallowed, turning away from Mycroft a little.

“Come in,” Mycroft said, one hand guiding Greg further into his home.

The warmth on his lower back was grounding, and Greg allowed himself to be shown through to sit on the sofa. How did that one small admission drain him of so much energy? Mycroft disappeared for a few moments, returning with a tea tray. It was a strange time for tea, but watching Mycroft play mother was comforting, and the warm ceramic filled something in Greg’s chest as the warmth seeped into his body.

“Thanks,” Greg said. “Sorry, I don’t…” he tried to laugh, but it was hollow and brief. He could feel Mycroft watching him, though his own eyes were on the caramel liquid in his mug.

“You didn’t realise how difficult your day had become,” Mycroft ventured with a half questioning tone.

“Yeah,” Greg said. He frowned, looking for the words. “Don’t think anyone’s really asked for a while. About my day, I mean. Had to help a bunch of newbies through. It was a pretty rough scene.”

“You’re always welcome to be honest with me,” Mycroft said. His eyes widened as the words hung in the air, and he raised his tea to his lips as though to stop himself making any other unanticipated comments. Too late to hide the flush creeping up his cheeks, but Greg pretended not to notice. His heart didn’t get the memo, pounding defiantly harder against his ribs.

“Jesus, you didn’t sign up for this, I’m meant to be helping you out,” Greg muttered. “Well, both of us, I guess.”

Mycroft was quiet for a long while. Greg had no idea what he was going to say. This would be the perfect conversational spot for an out, if he wanted one; Greg moaning about work was hardly part of the deal.

Finally, Mycroft shifted and opened his mouth. “My perspective is perhaps different,” he said. “I am grateful for your help with my family situation. But I am also very aware of the sacrifice you are making in the process and any assistance I am able to render…”

Greg finally looked up. Mycroft’s eyes were waiting, patient and with a softness Greg did not usually associate with that particular shade of grey. “Thanks,” he whispered through the lump in his throat.

Mycroft’s expression was pensive. “I fear I will require your…support before this is concluded,” he said quietly. “Are you sure…”

“Bit late for that,” Greg said, though the planned smile never eventuated. His eyes met Mycroft’s for a long, long moment before he added, “We don’t have to-”

“No,” Mycroft said, his voice cutting across Greg’s. He cleared his throat and spoke again, more softly this time. “It is begun, and I am committed to the course.” His eyes widened as he added, “Do not feel bound, however…”

Greg sighed. “I think we’re on the same page,” he said. “We’ve both said we’re in, and we’re both okay if the other wants to stop. Does that sound about right?”

“I believe so,” Mycroft said. “Given the nature of the relationship we are projecting, it might be worthwhile for us to spend some of our time together sharing details of our lives. Should anyone ask it would be unusual for either of us to be ignorant of facts, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah,” Greg said.

_Ignorant of the facts…_

“So, please tell me about your day,” Mycroft said, settling back as though he had nothing else in the world to do but listen to Greg. “Do not feel you need to gloss over the less appealing moments.”

Greg smiled, something loosening in his chest. Mycroft was giving him space to share, really share, and it was something he hadn’t realised he needed until now.

“I didn’t realise it was a bad one until I talked to Sally,” Greg began. “I guess we’ve all learned to shut it off because all I could think was how I needed to go through the forensics on that Lewisham thing…”

He continued speaking, and Mycroft asked questions; the conversation was easier than Greg imagined possible. He outlined the events of the day and the process helped ease his discomfort. Pinpointing difficult conversations and moments was Mycroft’s skill, and he applied it gently, helping pry Greg’s memories out of the grip of frustration and sadness. They would always be part of his job, but sharing them with someone who listened and did not try to diminish his reaction was incredibly comforting. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like. Mycroft shared selected details about his day, his dry humour making light of what were probably incredibly dull and serious meetings. By the time Greg’s tea was gone, he was relaxed eyes soft on Mycroft.

“Might I offer you something to eat?” Mycroft asked when there was a lull in their conversation.

“Yes, please,” Greg said, stretching into the cushion behind his back.

Mycroft nodded. “There are a number of options,” he said. “Would you care to make a choice?”

Greg grinned. “Delivery options?” he asked.

“Cooking is not my forte,” Mycroft said. He collected the mugs and picked up the tea tray, eyes resolutely on his load as he added, “I do enjoy baking. When the opportunity arises.”

Greg grinned, watching Mycroft’s discomfort at the admission. “Good to know,” he replied. “Gingerbread’s my favourite, unless you’ve got the hang of croissants.”

Mycroft looked up, eyebrows high. “I’ll bear it in mind,” he murmured.

Greg followed him into the kitchen. “Menus?” he asked.

Mycroft glanced over from where he was dismantling the tea tray. “Top drawer,” he murmured, nodding at the corner.

Helping himself to Mycroft’s kitchen – even with explicit permission – felt strangely domestic and added a layer to the familiarity Greg had noted on the way in. It was quiet as Greg flipped through menus and Mycroft returned the sugar bowl to the cabinet and the milk to the fridge. Domestic in a way he couldn’t remember for a long, long time. Comfortable. Surprising.

_Don’t get too attached, Lestrade._

_You’re talking so your relationship is convincing._

_Nothing more._

“Chinese?” he said, picking something at random to distract himself. It was just that he was a bit emotional today, what with actually getting to talk to someone. Like when he’d gone to a counsellor for a while. Never left there feeling quite steady in his head.

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied, closing the dishwasher.

“And you still haven’t heard from your mum?” Greg asked.

“I have not,” Mycroft replied. “Is there something you would prefer to order?”

“Anything is fine,” Greg said. Mycroft’s expression was sceptical. “Alright, order me the good stuff.”

“The good stuff?” Mycroft echoed, one eyebrow raised.

“Come on, I bet you know the best things on this menu, and I’m not fussy,” Greg told him, arms crossed as he leaned back against the bench. This was nice, the gentle back and forth he and Mycroft fell into so easily. His smile threatened to fade as he reminded himself of the situation.

_It’s starting to feel real but it’s not._

“Not fussy,” Mycroft echoed again. “I’ll bear that in mind, should your behaviour prove otherwise.”

“Oi,” Greg protested, though there was no heat in the sound.

The smile they shared was knowing and fond, and Greg felt the line of pretence blur again as Mycroft raised his phone to his ear.

“I’ll set the table, shall I?” Greg said. He started opening drawers at random, glancing over at Mycroft for direction. He was ordering in Mandarin but still pointed to the right drawer. Greg grinned, pulling out chopsticks for one and a fork, planning to goad Mycroft just a little. After their conversation he felt like it was maybe okay to be a little cheeky. It’s what he would do if they were really dating.

_If…_

Pushing down the pang of disappointment at the thought, Greg turned to set the table, but heard his phone ring, muffled from in his coat at the entranceway.

“Shit,” he muttered, tossing the cutlery on the table and jogging through the door. It was Sally’s ringtone, the only person singled out in such a way. She only ever rang him for work stuff, and if she was calling, he had to pick up.

“Yep,” he said, panting. “I’m here, Sal.”

“Boss?” she said. “Have you been running?”

“Something like that,” Greg said, ignoring the jab at how unfit he was. “What’s up?”

“Need you to come in,” she said. He groaned, though he was always grateful she cut to the chase. “Can’t send these requests through without your signature.”

“Bloody Anderson again,” Greg said.

“Yep,” Sally said, and Greg knew she was aping him. “Who else waits until the very end of the week to do their paperwork then refuses to put it through without the signature?”

Greg ran his hand through his hair, cursing Anderson. The bloody man was a stickler for the rules, but only when it suited him. Thank God Sally had seen through him at last, though it might have made him marginally worse to have been publically told to leave her alone or she’d arrest him for harassment.

“Can’t wait, can it,” Greg said, knowing the words were futile before he’d even opened his mouth. Of course it couldn’t. Things would be even more backed up if they left it until Monday.

“No,” Sally said. “I’ll wait here for you. Only a half dozen signatures and you’ll be back at the running track.”

“Right, I’ll be there in…soon,” Greg said. He had no idea how long it would take to get from Mycroft’s place to the Yard. Pocketing his phone, he went in search of Mycroft.

One look at his expression and Mycroft knew. “You must go.”

“For want of half a dozen signatures,” Greg said. “Bloody Anderson.”

Mycroft looked at him. “Am I right in assuming a courier would not be permitted to collect them, bring them here to be signed and return them?” he asked.

“Um, probably not?” Greg asked. The idea hadn’t even occurred to him. “Explaining why that paperwork left the office might be tricky.”

“In that case, allow me to call you a car,” Mycroft said. His phone was still in his hand and he was on the line before Greg could protest. “Two minutes,” he said calmly. “It is a twelve minute drive from here. You will be back in approximately half an hour, the estimated time for our meal to be delivered.”

Greg’s mouth hung open until he realised it was so and shut it fast. “Thanks,” he managed.

“If you would like the company I would be glad to come,” Mycroft said.

“No, no,” Greg replied, as tempting as the idea was. “Stay here.” He grinned, pushing past the heaving of his heart at the consideration he was being shown. “You can set the table.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. He picked up Greg’s coat from the rack, holding it out and settling it on Greg’s shoulders. Before Greg could move, Mycroft’s hands rested on his shoulders, warm and light. “Were we…dating,” he said quietly, “I would smooth your coat, like so.” His hands brushed just once, from neck to shoulder, ensuring the fabric draped over Greg’s shoulders as it was intended. A deep, slow wave of warmth followed the contact and he couldn’t hold in the shudder of response.

_Oh._

“Thank you,” Greg said without turning around. Considering he couldn’t even see Mycroft, this moment was surprisingly intimate.

“Take your time,” Mycroft said. “I will be waiting with our meal.”

“Thanks,” Greg managed again. He turned for long enough to shoot Mycroft a quick smile before pulling the door open. Controlled breathing down the stairs, another smile flashed at the receptionist and one at the driver, holding the door open as soon as he spotted Greg. The leather seat was beautifully comfortable, as always, and Greg leaned back, closing his eyes as the car took off.

As if being a great listener wasn’t enough, Mycroft was also incredibly thoughtful and patient. Greg bit back a groan. He’d gone into this assuming it wouldn’t be much of a hardship other than having to be careful he wasn’t too affectionate for Mycroft’s reserved self. How could he have known Mycroft was hiding a considerate, warm, empathetic soul under the aloof exterior Greg already liked so much? The problem wasn’t that it was difficult. The problem was how incredibly easy it already was.

Pushing it from his mind, Greg concentrated on where he was going. Work. He had to sign these forms, then he was out. Not even taking his coat off. Definitely not talking to Sally about where he was tonight. Much as he might have brushed off Mycroft’s suggestions about his comfort with people knowing his preferences, Greg didn’t really want that conversation right now. Not while he was playing catch up with his emotions.

+++

Returning to Mycroft’s flat, nerves fluttered through Greg’s belly. It felt like they’d made a lot of progress before he’d been pulled away, and he wondered if it would have dissipated in the short time he’d been gone. Surely not, yet as he waited for Mycroft to answer the door, he felt his hands slip into his pockets, shoulders hunching protectively. Greg would be guided by Mycroft. If he’d retreated back into his shell, that was fine. It was a long term project, he reminded himself.

All his self-assurances disappeared when Mycroft opened the door. His smile was wide and genuine, eyes searching Greg’s as though assessing his state of mind. Greg felt the tension in his shoulders begin to melt before he’d even exhaled properly.

_Jesus, he’s a sight for sore eyes._

“Excellent timing,” Mycroft said, helping Greg slip his coat off. His fingers brushed Greg’s shoulders again before disappearing to hang the coat. “Our meal is ready.”

Greg nodded, swallowing his relief. “Thanks,” he said. This was so far removed from what it would have been if he’d been at home. Already in his pants on the sofa when Sally called, his food getting cold when he left, too annoyed and still trying to settle himself when he returned. His food would have probably gone into the rubbish and he’d have rolled into bed, teeth questionably clean.

But Mycroft had set the table, their food was hot and waiting, and Greg didn’t realise until they were seated that his place was neatly set with enough cutlery for several courses.

“What’s this?” he asked, glancing over at Mycroft.

“I assumed since you chose a fork earlier you’d prefer something more formal than chopsticks,” Mycroft said innocently.

Greg blinked, the twinkle in Mycroft’s eye taking a second to sink in. He was taking the piss.

“You…” he breathed.

“Scoundrel?” Mycroft asked with a sly smile. “I believe I was merely turning the tables, as it were.”

“True,” Greg said. “But if that’s how you’re going to play it, I’ll have you know I’ve been responsible for a fair number of pranks in my time.”

“Noted,” Mycroft replied. “Although many years at boarding school does put me at considerable advantage.”

“Over two decades of Scouts and football?” Greg asked, pointedly spearing a spring roll with one of his forks. “Hardly likely.”

Their eyes met as they distributed the food, and Greg found himself pausing, drinking in the warmth pouring from Mycroft’s face. No, his whole body. His shoulders were relaxed, he was leaning forward, head tilted as he and Greg countered each other’s jests. It was affection, more than friendly warmth, and Greg wondered if Mycroft could feel the same from him. It was certainly pooling in his chest with a surprising level of intimacy all things considered.

_Best Friday night in a long time._

By the time Greg was ready to head home, his surprise was a faint pulse beneath the blanket of contentedness the evening drew over him. Every now and again something flared, bringing it to the fore, how easily they’d fallen into a comfortable dynamic. But the increasingly frequent, if shy, smiles Mycroft offered eased the flare until it faded. As he walked home, having forgone the offered car, Greg reflected that while the relationship pretending might be a lot easier than he anticipated, the break-up was going to be a heck of a lot more difficult.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags updated; make sure you're kind to yourself <3

Coming into work after the weekend, Greg felt strangely out of sorts. He’d been in both days dealing with the new case, and Mycroft had been called out to parts unknown. His voice was apologetic when he explained, but Greg hadn’t let him finish. It was more a surprise that Mycroft called to let him know, if Greg was being honest.

“Is that not what I would do?” Mycroft asked.

“No, it is,” Greg said, at a loss to explain his disappointment. He shrugged, knowing Mycroft wouldn’t see it.

“I understand,” Mycroft replied, though his tone wasn’t sure. “I anticipate a return Monday or Tuesday, if either would suit you?”

“Yeah,” Greg said, ignoring the football he’d said he would play Tuesday night. “Either’s good for me.”

The case was still difficult, and sleep was elusive, though he couldn’t work out why. He’d always slept about the same, no matter the work, but Monday morning fatigue tugged at his brain. It didn’t help that two constables had requested a transfer after this latest case.

Greg answered the phone absent-mindedly, half thinking about the problem that would be training new detectives again, less than a year after these last two finished their probation. “Lestrade,” he said, still wondering how he was meant to do any actual work when he was always walking new staff through the protocols.

“Someone here to see you, Detective Inspector,” the voice said. “She’s waiting at reception.”

Greg frowned. “Name?” he asked, knowing he was being short with the receptionist. There was no good answer to this problem but he needed to mull it over before his boss asked him why there was such a high turnover in his team. There was no shortage of people wanting into Homicide, it was keeping them here that was becoming a problem. As though people should try to get themselves killed in less repulsive ways.

“She says to tell you she’s…” the voice trailed off, then came back, “She’s your…boyfriend’s mother?”

Greg froze, then closed his eyes as adrenalin coursed through him. At least he was properly awake now. Mycroft’s mother was going right for the jugular, then. “Someone can escort her up to my office,” he said, internally groaning and apologising to Mycroft, wherever he was.

Greg couldn’t help spending the next couple of minutes doing a quick tidy of his desk, sweeping food wrappers into the bin and putting three empty mugs in the cupboard. A quick check of his tie (still on, possibly straight) and he could see a uniformed officer being followed by a woman who looked as though she owned the place.

Not just owned the place, but was deeply disappointed at what she saw.

_Oh, this will be fun._

Greg drew a deep breath and remembered what he was doing this for. If she was going to be polite, so was he, but if things weren’t so pleasant, well, he was prepared for that too. She entered his office, one eyebrow raised in an unsettlingly familiar expression, fingers tight around her handbag.

“Introduce me,” she told the officer without taking her eyes from Greg.

“Detective Inspector, this is…Violet Holmes,” the uniform said, eyes wide.

“Thanks, Jacobs,” Greg said, relieved he knew her name. She scurried off as Greg turned his eyes to Mycroft’s mother.

“Mrs. Holmes, I’m Greg Lestrade,” he said, offering his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

She blinked at him, but did not shake his hand. “So you’re the man who thinks he’s dating my son?” she said crisply.

_Not a good start._

“If you’re referring to Mycroft,” Greg said, “that would be me.” He indicated the visitor’s chair, pulling his own out from behind the desk. “Can I offer you a seat?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. She looked him up and down, a definite, distinct move that rippled the air with her disapproval. “Don’t think I don’t know what he’s doing,” she said.

“Um, I’m not sure I follow?” Greg said. It was taking all his effort to keep his voice mild in the face of this clear dislike. Despite her fancy clothes and posh accent, she was quite rude, and Greg dealt with murderers for a living. She hadn’t said anything specifically about his gender so far, but the disapproval stirred deeply buried memories from Greg’s youth.

“Mycroft is clearly employing you to avoid his duty to find a partner,” she said. “As though you would be an acceptable choice.”

Greg blinked, not even sure where he should start. She was looking at him with cold, sneering eyes, and he took a deep breath.

_Fuck it._

“Firstly,” he said, keeping his voice as steady as possible but using the same tone of voice as when Anderson was refusing to work, “I resent the implication that Mycroft is paying me for anything. We had a nice date, we’ve decided we’d both like more of the same. He and I are grown men, and despite your obvious wishes, he’s old enough to make his own decisions about who he sees and when. So with all due respect, Mrs. Holmes, unless you have something nice to say about my boyfriend, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Greg met her gaze – he did this for a living, it wasn’t that hard – until she harrumphed and left, sweeping out of the office with all the drama of Sherlock.

_So that’s where he gets it from._

_Shit._

Greg sat down again, his hand shaking. Pissing off Mycroft’s mother was not part of the plan. He had to call Mycroft. Before he could get his phone out of his pocket, Sally was standing in the doorway, her eyes wide.

“Um, boss?” she asked.

“What?” he said.

“Who was that, exactly?”

“Mycroft and Sherlock’s mother,” Greg said absently, drafting a quick message to Mycroft, hoping he wasn’t still in Azerbaijan or something.

“Why?” she asked.

“She’s not happy Mycroft and I are seeing each other,” Greg told her, pressing send on his message. He raised his eyes to Sally. Her mouth had dropped open. Greg sighed and gave her the five second version, making sure to keep to the public version of the story.

“So you thought you were on a blind date,” Sally said incredulously.

“Yes, John set me up,” Greg repeated himself. “I dunno why he would have chosen Mycroft, but I was hardly going to be rude enough not to show up.”

“And Mycroft thought he’d been set up with you?” Sally asked.

“Yes,” Greg said. He hadn’t specified by whom; that wasn’t any of her business, and Mycroft still hadn’t got back to him. Had he blown it?

“And so the two of you ended up deciding to keep seeing each other,” Sally said.

“Yep,” Greg said. This was already getting tedious; answering the same questions over and over.

“And John knew you dated men?” Sally checked. She was frowning, and Greg realised she was actually very good at this.

“Clearly,” Greg told her. Better to keep his answers short. He was fairly sure he could trust her, but the fewer people who knew what was really going on, the better.

“Might have been a joke or something,” Sally suggested.

Greg gave her a look. “Not really John’s style,” he muttered. “Look Sal, usually I ask you to keep things to yourself, but this time, go nuts. Tell anyone you want I’m dating Mycroft. The more this spreads as gossip, the fewer times I have to have this conversation.”

Sally raised her eyebrows, studying him for a second. “Sure boss,” she said. “In that case I’m going to wander into a few departments and tell a few people some stuff about a guy I know.”

“Make sure they know it’s _not_ Sherlock,” Greg told her. “That’s the last thing I need.”

“No problem boss,” she told him, smirking.

As soon as Sally was gone Greg grabbed his coat and headed out, blurting something about a family emergency to the receptionist. It wasn’t a lie exactly. It wasn’t his family, but that didn’t make it any less of an emergency.

As soon as he hit the street, Greg realised he had no idea what he was doing. He hadn’t heard from Mycroft; he couldn’t even remember what he’d said.

Flicking his phone open, Greg blinked at his own words.

_Your mum’s been here. She’s not happy. Where are you? Need to talk._

Greg read it a few times. It was actually a good message. Short and to the point. But where was Mycroft? Surely he’d answer if he could. It was hours since Greg had spoken to him and he could certainly be in some lockdown meeting, or in a plane over an unnamed country by now…

“Detective Inspector.” His title was as good as his name for catching his attention, and he looked up.

_Anthea._

Without a word, Greg slid into the back of the car, astonished when Anthea did not follow. The car took off and Greg allowed the relief to flow through him as he exhaled. Whatever he thought was going on, one thing was clear. He and Mycroft were being brought together. The leather seats were comfortable and Greg sat back, enjoying the respite from whatever whirlwind he’d accidentally set in motion.

When the car stopped, Greg opened the door, having no idea where he was until he looked around. The door shut behind him and he stared up at Mycroft’s club. The car was slipping back into traffic, and there was nobody there to tell him what to do. The times they’d come here, Mycroft warned him not to speak. Greg didn’t overthink it; he walked up the steps, unsurprised when he had to wait before the door opened to admit him. He stepped over to the reception desk, standing quietly until someone else arrived, indicating with a uniformed arm he was to follow. Greg did, trusting if not this system, that Mycroft trusted the system. That was enough for him.

When the gloved hand of the attendant knocked before turning the handle of a door, Greg nodded to him as he left, swallowing down nerves.

The door swung open.

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft greeted him.

To a casual observer, he might appear calm; leaning against the edge of his desk as though he’d been expecting Greg, which he probably had been. As Greg blinked, waiting for the door to close behind him, he studied Mycroft. Fingers gripping the edge of the table, jaw tight, and Greg had never in his life seen Mycroft lean against anything, unless his umbrella counted. His perfect suit gave away nothing, but to Greg it was clear.

_Tense._

Swallowing, Greg jumped a little at the sound of the door clicking behind him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, the privacy of this room finally allowing him to relax the barrier he’d erected around his reaction to the meeting with Mycroft’s mother.

Mycroft drew a deep breath and Greg braced, though no words came. Mycroft strode forward, veering at the last second around Greg.

_He’s leaving._

The snick of the lock made Greg jump. He’d been expecting Mycroft to open the door and let himself out, and at the unexpected sound his eyes flew open. Turning brought him far closer to Mycroft than he anticipated and Greg’s breath caught in his throat. Wide eyes, chest heaving, and fear like Greg hadn’t seen in a long time, only centimetres away from him. Mycroft looked younger and more vulnerable than he ever thought possible.

Greg thought his heart was full, but this pushed it over the edge.

_Oh, Mycroft._

Without thinking, Greg stepped sideways, wrapping his arms tight, not caring one bit about the fancy suit. It was as much for himself as Mycroft. The whole morning had been a disaster, or at least the last hour, and if there was one thing that always made a disaster feel less…disastrous, it was a hug. He didn’t stop to agonise if it was the right thing to do or not, but when Mycroft shifted so his arms could come tentatively around Greg’s shoulders, he sighed with relief.

_Let’s comfort each other._

Obviously Mycroft had more to lose in this whole situation, but Greg couldn’t shake the look of disapproval on Violet Holmes’ face as she stared at him. And in his own office. As he held onto Mycroft and felt the pressure on his own body, Greg admitted the thing he’d been pushing down since he first glimpsed the edges of it earlier.

It reminded him of when he was young. When he was first introducing people to boyfriends, not knowing how they’d react. Some people barely blinked of course, but there were a few who didn’t bother hiding their reaction. Just a few, but it was enough, and the memories of those interactions lingered far longer than the easy acceptance ever did.

Greg squeezed his eyes tight against whispered words from long ago. He didn’t want to hear them again. He was a police officer, for Chrissake, and a grown man with a head full of silver hair. Why were long gone words from someone he could barely remember still affecting him like this? It was possible he squeezed Mycroft tighter, because he felt the arms around him do the same, hands flat against his back sliding smoothly as they adjusted. It was wonderful, a long forgotten comfort, and Greg fought to pull himself out of the past. He should be making this into a memory instead, booting out the old and making newer, happier ones instead.

So he drew in every bit of awareness he had, locking away the smell of Mycroft’s cologne and the feel of his hands smoothing wide circles and his breath skittering across skin and all the other tiny things Greg couldn’t even catalogue. He kept holding tight until his arms ached and Mycroft finally slowed his hands. Greg took one more breath, not quite wanting things to end before he eased his body back. As the gap between their bodies grew so did Greg’s awareness of how they’d just spent the last few minutes. He almost slipped his hands from Mycroft’s waist, but hands still rested on his shoulders, so he remained close. Was Mycroft comfortable with this? There was nothing that indicated otherwise, and Greg knew his hands were not pressing enough to ask him to remain.

_I can’t ask him to do that._

With a deep breath, Greg gripped his courage hard and turned his face up to Mycroft. From this close the dark smudges of fatigue were clear under Mycroft’s eyes. Greg wondered if he had slept at all since the early hours of Saturday morning, when they’d last spoken.

“Hey,” Greg said, his voice barely carrying.

“I’m so sorry,” Mycroft whispered.

“Hey,” Greg said again, and this time it was not a greeting. “Don’t do that. Don’t apologise for her. She’s a grown woman, making her own decisions.” He tried to smile, hoping it would be encouraging. “Just like you’re a grown man, making yours.”

Mycroft swallowed. “Might I…would you describe your conversation?”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “D’you want to sit down?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” he said, and to Greg’s astonishment, his face flushed pink and his hands tightened on Greg’s waist. “I am finding…would you mind…”

Greg spoke carefully, not wanting to cut Mycroft off. “We can stay here if you want.” He lacked the courage to say _like this_ , but he hoped his hands pressing incrementally against Mycroft’s waist might make his meaning clear.

“Perhaps we might sit,” Mycroft whispered. “But…close?”

“Sure,” Greg said. Though he could see Mycroft moving to the sofa, he could feel it too. It was the kind of awareness Greg had not experienced in a long time. More than sex or lust, it was more like the kind of deep emotional connection he associated with intimate relationships that grew from friendships. The connection you couldn’t force, and Greg swallowed hard. It was a hell of a lot more than he expected from this whole charade, but on the other hand, finding himself in a tight embrace with Mycroft wasn’t exactly planned either.

_Not planned, but incredibly welcome._

_And he was holding you tight too, remember?_

Greg pushed the idea away, but it was tenacious as he moved to sit beside Mycroft on the sofa.


	6. Chapter 6

“So,” Greg said, not entirely sure where to start. “I’m not sure she was too happy, as I said.” He’d settled beside Mycroft, close enough their knees were touching. He wondered if Mycroft wanted more contact, but settled for keeping his hands on his own knee, available but not pushing. They might be in a locked room, but it was a locked room in Mycroft’s club, and Greg didn’t know exactly how comfortable Mycroft was here.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, eyes locked on his own hands, cupped together on his knee. “Was she…what did she say?”

“Swept in like she owned the place,” Greg said. “Obviously not impressed by me. Wasn’t too sure if it was my working class roots or that I’m a bloke, but she made it clear I was not an acceptable choice.”

Mycroft nodded. “Only someone…only a woman she chooses will be acceptable,” he said quietly.

“Acceptable _to her_ ,” Greg said. “Remember you’re a grown man. You can make a choice about your life, even if it’s not what your mother would chose.”

“It sounds simple,” Mycroft said. He was quiet for a while, but it was the kind of silence Greg knew meant he was thinking. After a moment, he added, “She would cut me off, should I defy her too vigorously. We play a dangerous game, Gregory.” A twitch and a self-conscious glance at Greg told him Mycroft might not have planned to say those words out loud.

“She’d cut you off?” Greg asked. He hadn’t realised Mycroft was so reliant on his family. Perhaps the compensation for Government work was more in flights and accommodation than salary. Doubt started to creep in, but Mycroft spoke again and Greg pulled his attention back to their conversation.

“I am hoping she will see enough reason to accept my decision,” Mycroft said. He frowned and Greg thought he’d continue that thought, but instead he added, “What else did she say?”

Greg sighed. There was no getting out of this, then. He thought back. “She told reception she was my boyfriend’s mother. Made it sound like I was deluded to think we were dating. Actually, I think she’s guessed we’re,” he wasn’t sure how to phrase it, “not being entirely honest about things.”

“Oh God,” Mycroft whispered to himself, hunching inward.

Instinctively, Greg reached out, and the slump of Mycroft’s shoulders as their hands tangled made it clear it was the right thing to do. He could hear Mycroft breathing fast, and it didn’t slow down even with his thumb making circles on the back of Mycroft’s hand. An idea came to Greg, but he wasn’t sure if it was too much.

_That hug wasn’t too much._

_Holding hands wasn’t too much._

Carefully, Greg loosened one hand, resting it on Mycroft’s back. When it wasn’t shrugged off Greg started long, slow circles, following the pace of breathing he wanted Mycroft to settle into. He wouldn’t be able to concentrate on their conversation if he was lost in a panic spiral. Greg didn’t say anything, just keeping his hand moving in soothing circles. Slowly Mycroft’s breathing eased, but Greg didn’t stop.

“Better?” he murmured.

“Thank you,” Mycroft whispered.

“Do you want me to keep going?” Greg asked. “With what happened today, I mean.”

“Please,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg could feel the muscles under his palm tense, so he waited a moment before continuing. “I think she thinks you’re – we’re – doing this purely to spite her.” He hesitated. “I’m not sure she accepts you’re attracted to men.”

“She does not,” Mycroft replied. “Or to be more accurate, she does not see the relevance of the fact.”

Greg frowned, but didn’t pursue the idea. He wanted to get this over and done with, and discussing Mycroft’s mother in any more detail than necessary was not appealing in the least. The slow movement of his hand was working for him too, so he continued the motion as he spoke again.

“After that, she didn’t say anything else. I told her I’m not being paid, that we had a nice date and both decided we wanted to do it again. I told her we’re grown men and both old enough to make our own decisions about our lives. Then I told her if she didn’t have anything nice to say about my boyfriend,” Greg felt his face begin to flush at the word, “I’d have to ask her to leave.”

Mycroft’s back twisted under Greg’s hand as he turned to look at Greg. “You told her what?” he whispered.

“I was firm but polite,” Greg said. “And she was…not.” He could see the astonishment blur into despair in Mycroft’s eyes and marvelled for a second that someone who wielded power like Mycroft Holmes could be reduced to this by his mother. Greg liked her less and less by the second.

“She can be single-minded,” Mycroft said. “And she is used to dominating a conversation.”

“Yeah, that was clear,” Greg said. “But so am I.” He smiled at Mycroft’s widening eyes. “She’ll come around. It’s all just happening faster than we thought it might.”

Mycroft shook his head. “She is not used to being challenged,” he said. “In any aspect of her life.”

“Can I ask,” Greg said, “and please don’t feel like you have to answer this,” Greg paused to give Mycroft an opportunity to stop him.

“You may ask me anything,” Mycroft said quietly. “All things considered, I will be as open as possible.”

Greg swallowed, nodding. “What about your dad?” he asked.

Mycroft’s mouth twisted into a smile so bitter Greg saw a flash of his younger brother. “My father,” he murmured. “He married up, according to my mother. His family boasts a long lineage, but they had no money. My mother had the money, but with several generations fewer on the family tree, she needed my father’s family name to socially advance.”

“Right,” Greg said. It sounded like Violet was more in need of her husband than he her, but that wasn’t really the point, so he kept his mouth shut.

“She’s very driven,” Mycroft said. “My father is content with his books and his garden. He rarely contradicts her.”

“Not even in this?” Greg asked. “Not if he knew you were unhappy?”

Mycroft sighed. It was a sadder sound than Greg expected to hear. “I would not expect him to challenge her,” he said. “I don’t believe it is a happy match. Satisfactory, to some extent. With my father content to avoid conflict, my mother has more or less had her run of the house since we were small boys.”

Greg nodded. The glimpse into the kind of home Mycroft and Sherlock grew up in explained a lot about both men. It also sparked his protective instinct. How someone could be so blind to their own son’s unhappiness was beyond him, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let it continue.

“Well,” Greg said, “I think she was fishing. I don’t think she had any proof we’re not actually seeing each other.”

He tried to smile reassuringly, but the words almost stuck in his throat. Even if their relationship wasn’t real, this conversation was, and it blurred the line until it was almost invisible. He and Mycroft comforted each other after a difficult encounter. Mycroft wanted to be physically close, and Greg couldn’t deny he drew comfort from being allowed to touch Mycroft and knowing it was making things easier. His hand was still making circles; the skin was tingling from the constant stimulation but he wasn’t going to stop until Mycroft asked.

_Oh God, I’m not pretending any more, am I?_

Greg drew a deep breath. “So I think she was really there to see what I would say, to find out if I was someone she could…influence, and to see if it could be as simple as one visit from the disapproving mother and the relationship falls apart.”

“She wanted to see if you’d run,” Mycroft whispered.

“Yes,” Greg replied. “Do you think I should have pointed out I deal with actual murderers? Or would she have seen that as a challenge?” He was trying for some dark humour and it obviously worked. Mycroft huffed the slightest of laughs, his eyes sliding to Greg’s for a second before they returned to somewhere in the region of his shoes.

“We’re on the same page,” Greg said quietly. “And even if we’re not being…if things aren’t exactly as they seem, we’re doing this for the right reason. And we do like each other, we do spend time together.” He drew a breath, squeezing Mycroft’s fingers. “We support each other. So from that perspective, there’s nothing for her to find. And I’ll have your back if she tries to put pressure on us.”

Greg had no idea if that was too much, but he wanted Mycroft to know where he stood. He could envision a young Mycroft, being berated by his mother with nobody to defend or encourage him. No wonder he retreated into himself so entirely. His carefully protected life also made sense – it would be almost impossible for his mother to drop in on Mycroft now. Greg could certainly see the attraction after meeting Violet Holmes.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said. “You are very kind.”

“Well, we’re friends,” Greg said with a grin. “Although my team’s now in the know, so if they ask, we’re boyfriends.”

“Noted,” Mycroft replied. He turned his head to meet Greg’s eyes and it was breathtakingly close. “It’s official, then.”

“Mycroft,” Greg said, a thought coming to him. It must have been in his voice too, because Mycroft’s soft expression grew apprehensive, though he did not pull his eyes away. “On that point,” Greg said, heart beating increasingly faster as he realised what he was about to propose, “Maybe now might be a good time to…I mean, we’re getting more comfortable with this,” he nodded at their joined hands, “but perhaps…”

Greg trailed off, wondering if Mycroft was on the same page enough to have worked out what he was trying to say.

_We should kiss. So it’s not weird if we have to do it in front of anyone._

_Well, not too weird._

As he watched Mycroft’s brow furrow, Greg’s eyes dropped of their own accord, tracing the shape of Mycroft’s mouth. He couldn’t remember being so close and having the opportunity to allow his eyes to linger there. When they parted, offering a tease of what might be within, Mycroft made a single sound, a puff of breath giving it voice.

“Oh.”

Greg’s eyes snapped back up, and he realised if Mycroft hadn’t understand his words he’d certainly understood catching Greg staring at his mouth. It wasn’t what he’d planned but it certainly worked, because Greg was now sitting very close to Mycroft, one hand wrapped in his, the other on Mycroft’s back.

And the acknowledgement of Greg’s suggestion hanging in the air between them.

The atmosphere was completely still, and for the first time since Greg placed his hand on Mycroft’s back, it stopped moving. It rested near Mycroft’s shoulder, heavy and still tingling. Greg was just wondering if he should remove it all together when Mycroft shifted. It might have been a nod; his eyes were still wide, but they flicked down and back up, locking onto Greg’s before he visibly swallowed.

This time, his nod was definitive.

The realisation made Greg’s mouth go dry, and he licked his lips reflexively. Should he be the first to lean in? Did Mycroft want to wait, or say something first? The questions were still swirling when Mycroft leaned forward a little, stopping, checking with Greg.

_Okay, so we’re doing this._

Greg leaned forward, tilting his head, instinct taking over as he saw Mycroft match him. The hand on Mycroft’s shoulder slid up and across his neck, cradling the back of his head. The short hair was a surprise; it was a while since he’d kissed a man. Or a woman with short hair, his logical brain supplied, the last rational thought before his mouth pressed against Mycroft’s.

Slow and soft.

Kissing men was always different than kissing women. In Greg’s experience men were less wary. He expected to be manhandled more, for caresses to be rougher, passion to have an edge to it. Tenderness was rare.

None of that tracked true with Mycroft.

He sighed into their kiss, neither demanding nor taking more than Greg was giving. He didn’t push and when his fingers slid up the outside of Greg’s thigh to rest on his hip, Greg felt himself stifle a groan at the care behind the touch. He couldn’t scare Mycroft off. Surely if they remained here forever the world would shape around them?

Greg moved his mouth, feeling Mycroft’s breath catch before he responded. The slide settled them more closely than the hesitant first touch and Greg’s fingers curled into the nape of Mycroft’s neck, his body almost exploding with sensation.

_How is one kiss affecting me so much?_

Their movement was slow but definite, neither pushing hard. It was exploratory, figuring out how they worked together. Greg’s mind was pulling in every bit of information it could find, filling his senses until Mycroft pulsed through his veins amongst his very blood. Being surrounded by Mycroft was comforting at a level Greg did not expect, and it took considerable restraint not to seek _more_. The tease of almost tasting, of feeling a hand on his hip but no more was tempting but Greg knew this was a fragile situation.

_Don’t break it._

It felt like a super human effort to pull away, but it had to be done. They were already close to something far deeper than either had discussed. Mycroft’s breathing was hard again, and as Greg watched him blink his way back to himself, the grey eyes were foggy with something that looked a lot like arousal.

_He’s been kissing someone. Of course that’s what it looks like._

Greg cleared his throat. They were still sitting close, but Greg eased his torso back a little, needing some space if he was going to focus. He sensed Mycroft doing the same. Regret about the gap widening between them rose in Greg. It was unexpected; they were still intimately close as far as social norms were concerned, yet to Greg it felt impassable.

“So you’re back from wherever you were,” Greg said, clearing his throat. “Did you get any sleep while you were away?”

“Some,” Mycroft allowed. “I intend to return home early this evening, provided work allows it.”

“Not gonna go home and work in your jogging bottoms?” Greg said. He tried to hold in his smile, but Mycroft’s expression of horror at the idea was too much and it spread across his face. “That’s a no, then.”

“I prefer to remain fully dressed while I am working.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “So you do own jogging bottoms, then?”

“I do not,” Mycroft replied.

“Jeans and a jumper then,” Greg said, remembering what Mycroft had been wearing last week.

“When I am confident work is concluded for the day, yet too few hours remain to justify a change of clothes, I will remove the _accoutrements_ of my wardrobe in order to relax,” Mycroft said. “Otherwise I retire immediately.”

“The what?” Greg asked, amused at the random French word.

“The details, if you will,” Mycroft said. “Jacket, cufflinks, tie bar, tie.”

“Right,” Greg said good-naturedly. “So shirtsleeves and waistcoat?”

“More or less,” Mycroft agreed. “Even that is enough to signal the end of my working day. It feels reckless to tempt fate when I might be called into an urgent video meeting at short notice.”

“Takes time for such perfection,” Greg said. “Especially when you’re starting from jogging bottoms.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied. The silence hung between them for a second, but Greg couldn’t bear it stretching out.

“So you’re okay?” Greg asked. He wasn’t sure if he was asking about Mycroft’s reaction to the news about his mother or their kiss. Probably both.

“I am,” Mycroft replied. “And you?”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “A bit tired, might just head home for a sleep.”

“In your jogging bottoms,” Mycroft said with a straight face.

“Yep,” Greg said. He ignored the fact he usually slept in nothing. This was not the moment to share that particular piece of information. He stood up, suddenly awkward as he found himself watching Mycroft closely. Was he actually okay?

Mycroft stepped close and Greg felt his breath catch in his throat. “Please, do not worry,” he said. “Your presence here has calmed me significantly.” He hesitated before adding, “I hope it has also settled your nerves.”

“Yeah,” Greg whispered, suddenly emotional. The morning had been a rollercoaster, but he wouldn’t have swapped it for anything. He’d not only hugged Mycroft – and been hugged in return – but shared a kiss that had blown his world open. Was he more settled than before? Certainly, he was less worried about Violet. But if Mycroft was cut off as a result of this charade, how would he live with himself? Greg wasn’t brave enough to bring it up, but he wondered what effect that would have on Mycroft’s life. From his reaction, it would be less than good.

“Gregory?”

“Yeah,” Greg said, blinking. He must have zoned out there for a second. “Sorry, yeah,” he smiled at Mycroft. “I’m glad I came over.”

“As am I,” Mycroft replied. He hesitated, but Greg’s heart heaved as he leaned forward, one hand resting on Greg’s shoulder as his lips pressed to Greg’s cheek. Greg responded in kind, relieved Mycroft wouldn’t see how his eyes fluttered closed at the contact.

_I’m in too deep now._


	7. Chapter 7

John was sitting in their usual place when Greg arrived. He wasn’t sure he was going to go, not after the last time they met. Neither had been in contact for over a week, and Greg couldn’t blame John for staying away. They both knew there was something going on, and for some reason it was irritating John far more than it usually did. Greg knew it was guilt preventing him from making the first overture. He just hoped it wouldn’t be the end of their friendship, and even when John asked him to meet for a quiet one at their local, Greg couldn’t be sure it wasn’t to tell him he was a wanker and to piss off.

“Alright.” Greg greeted John cautiously, sliding into their booth. It was a good sign he’d ordered Greg a pint, assuming it wasn’t poisoned or something.

“Alright,” John replied, nodding. He drank from his pint, and it wasn’t until the glass was returned to the coaster he looked up at Greg and spoke.

“I was an arsehole last time,” John said. “I shouldn’t have been.”

Greg nodded. “You were,” he agreed, “but I understand why.”

He wasn’t going to be explicit about what was happening with Mycroft, not yet. And certainly not without speaking to Mycroft about it. Not to mention, he was not entirely sure where things sat, exactly.

John was watching him, and his expression didn’t change as he said, “Look Greg, I’m gonna say some stuff, and you can answer it or not. But I need to say it.”

“Right,” Greg said. That was entirely unhelpful in terms of preparing him, and it could go either way. From John’s expression, Greg thought it might have been leaning towards, ‘you’re a shit friend’ but he couldn’t be sure.

“You’ve had a weird thing with Mycroft for a while,” John said. “You’re the only person even close to his friend, and from what you’ve told me, it sounds more like some kind of courtship or something.” He paused, studying Greg’s expression, but he was working hard at keeping his expression neutral. John shrugged. “You haven’t gone past a first date in ages, and I reckon it’s because of Mycroft. So whatever’s going on here, whatever complicated thing you’re doing that has nothing to do with Sherlock, it’s you I’m worried about.”

Greg only realised his mouth was hanging open when he had to close it to swallow. He wanted to say _What the hell are you talking about,_ but the look on John’s face was of the ‘don’t fucking lie to me’ variety. Despite his decision walking in, and against his best intentions, it looked like he was going to talk about this with John. At least a bit.

“Okay,” Greg said, knowing he would have to be careful. “I can see how you’d get that impression.” He thought he’d been better at hiding it, but that was obviously not the case. He drank from his beer to stop himself continuing. John didn’t need any more information to arm this idea of his.

“Sherlock thinks you’re doing this so Mycroft doesn’t have to do that dating thing with his mother anymore,” John said.

Greg nodded, keeping his expression neutral. “And does Sherlock give a reason for cracking your phone and sending me off on that blind date?” he asked.

John shrugged. “Not in so many words,” he said. “But in his own way, I think he was trying to help.”

“Help?” Greg repeated. “Help who?”

John looked steadily at Greg. “If I noticed the thing with you and Mycroft, what do you think he noticed?”

“You noticed? Sherlock didn’t tell you?” Greg asked, then cursed himself for being drawn into the question.

“We agreed on our observations of you,” John replied.

Greg nodded. He didn’t want to make Mycroft the focus of this conversation, but he did have a question. “And what did you, either of you, observe about Mycroft?”

John drank, taking his time before replying, “What do you think, if he cracked my phone and set you up?”

_Shit._

Greg drank from his pint to give his brain a second to work out how to process this. He was still trying to figure it out when his glass landed back on the table, so he shifted the direction a little.

“So why’s this gotten under your skin?” Greg asked.

John didn’t move for a long moment. “Hypothetically,” he said finally, “and only hypothetically, how would you feel if someone you lived with noticed something in someone he didn’t even like but missed what was right under his own roof?”

Greg stared at him for a long moment, trying to work that out. It came to him slowly, and he wasn’t entirely sure. “Sherlock?” he asked tentatively.

John shrugged. “Mycroft?” he retorted, though his tone lacked the sharpness it might have had.

Right then. Sounded like a fairly shit situation, all things considered. And Greg could see how it’d bring out the kind of bitterness John had shown last time. Thinking, Greg shaped his next comment carefully.

“We’ve come to an agreement,” Greg said. “It really doesn’t have anything to do with Sherlock.” He added, “Hypothetically, if I was…more invested than Mycroft, well, that’d be my problem to deal with. Eventually.”

John nodded. “Don’t fuck it up,” he muttered into his pint. “You’ll regret it.”

Ah. Now that told Greg more about what was – and wasn’t – happening with John and Sherlock. “It’s a bit shit, isn’t it?” he said.

“Bloody is,” John agreed, and the clink of their glasses signalled their agreement. “At least the football’s going alright.”

Greg took the hint and changed the subject, their conversation wandering around until their glasses sat empty. “I should go,” he said. “Heaps going on at work.”

John nodded. “Better make sure my flat’s still there,” he said, standing.

“Next week?” Greg asked.

“Yeah,” John replied. He hesitated before they turned their separate ways to add, “Say hi to Mycroft for me.”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “Thanks, John.” He walked slowly home, glad that at least that part of his life was okay again.

+++

Mycroft must not have been convincing as far as his mother was concerned, because she called him twice in the coming week. The first time Anthea arrived at Greg’s flat without warning, catching him on a rare day off. He was in the car and halfway to Mycroft before she’d explained properly and when he arrived at Mycroft’s flat, he stepped into a wordless hug that lasted at least five minutes. They hadn’t talked about it, not really, but Greg stayed the rest of the afternoon and evening, reading and cooking dinner like any couple would. Before Greg left Mycroft whispered, “Thank you,” into his neck at the end of their farewell hug.

Greg wanted to kiss him again, but settled for a lingering press of lips against his cheek instead.

The second time Greg was sitting at the far end of the sofa, his toes tucked under Mycroft’s knee as they read their respective books. It was mildly surprising Mycroft didn’t get up when the phone rang; Greg always assumed it was work. This time his spine straightened and the look he shot Greg was distressed before he’d even spoken.

“Good evening, Mother,” he said.

Greg sat up, closing his book without even marking the page. He pulled his legs in, not wanting to crowd Mycroft, but Mycroft reached one hand out without looking. Greg grabbed at it, wrapping fingers around and resting it on his knee. He couldn’t hear Violet but it was clear from Mycroft’s face she was giving him a rough time. He frowned, stroking his fingers along the back of Mycroft’s hand.

“I have to disagree,” Mycroft began, but he closed his mouth before continuing, lips pressed into a straight line as he listened. Greg felt his fingers curl tight and he returned the pressure. Helplessness rolled through him as Mycroft tried to speak again but was obviously cowed by his mother’s voice.

As Mycroft closed his eyes but continued to hold the phone to his ear, the helplessness burnt out of Greg, replaced with anger. What sort of parent spoke to their child like this without giving them a chance to respond? Suddenly, Greg leaned forward, taking the phone from Mycroft’s hand. He relinquished it, not quite understanding until Greg carefully ended the call, cutting off the cold voice he could hear coming tinny and quiet from the speaker.

“She’s not listening, is she?” Greg murmured.

“She is not,” Mycroft whispered. The grief in his voice was almost palpable and it solidified Greg’s decision.

As the phone rang again Mycroft jumped, but Greg spoke calmly, allowing it to ring. “I’m going to answer it, okay?” He waited for Mycroft to nod, hardly more than a frightened jerk of his head.

Greg took a deep breath before pressing the green button to connect the call.

“Good evening Violet,” he said, ignoring whatever she had already started to say in the assumption it was her son on the other end of the line. “Unfortunately Mycroft is no longer available to speak with you.”

“Put my son on the phone,” Violet said. Ice was generally warmer, Greg thought to himself, absently squeezing Mycroft’s hand before he replied.

“As I said, he is unavailable,” Greg repeated, continuing his message even when she interrupted him. He allowed her to continue, meeting Mycroft’s eyes and giving him mind free rein to wander along the lines of _his eyes are such a remarkable colour_ while Violet essentially ranted at dead air.

When the noise finished, Greg let the silence ring for a second before he spoke. “Are you done?” he said. “I wasn’t listening, but from your tone I’ll assume you have some kind of problem you’d like to discuss with Mycroft. If you can condense your concerns I can pass them on to him, but I can’t let you continue to speak to him like this.”

The silence continued, and Greg, still holding Mycroft’s eyes, gave a small smile. He hoped it was supportive; they hadn’t exactly talked about this but he couldn’t just sit by and let Violet bully Mycroft.

“And who gave you permission to act in such a role?”

“I don’t need permission,” Greg told her calmly. “It’s what you do for someone you’re dating.”

“Keep them from their family?” Violet sneered.

“Protect them,” Greg said flatly. “From all comers, including family if need be.”

“You are enabling his mutiny,” Violet breathed. “He will see reason, and he will…”

“No,” Greg said, dropping his own voice into Detective Inspector mode. He was already sick of this conversation, and he wasn’t going to stop even if she tried to interrupt him. “Mutiny implies that you are in charge and Mycroft is under your control. He is an independent adult, Violet, and he is in charge of his own life. He will not see your reason, not while you continue to bully him like this, not while I’m here to stop it. If you want to contact me, you know where to find me, but I won’t tolerate you speaking to me like I’m some kind of underling. But if you continue to speak to Mycroft this way, he’s not going to want to have anything to do with you. And that’s got nothing to do with me.”

She was still speaking when Greg hung up on her, turning off the phone and tossing it on the sofa behind him. As he’d anticipated Mycroft collapsed into his arms as soon as he turned back, shaking in response to the event. They shifted together until Mycroft was curled against Greg’s chest, one arm snaking around his middle.

“I hope that was okay,” Greg said, hands making wide circles on Mycroft’s back. “I could see how upset you were getting.”

“I could never have said that to her,” Mycroft whispered.

“You could,” Greg replied, “but if you’d rather, I can do it for you.”

“You won’t always be here,” Mycroft said, misery in his every tone. “She’s…persuasive.”

Greg paused, his heart breaking for Mycroft even as his fury with Violet burned. “Can I tell you how I see it?” he offered. “I mean…I know she’s your mum. I don’t want to offend you.”

“Please,” Mycroft said finally.

“If I saw that conversation and I was on the job,” Greg said, hoping a little distance would soften the blow his words would inflict, “I’d say that person was abusive. A bully that doesn’t listen. And they were acting in their own interests.”

Mycroft stiffened at his words, but he didn’t protest. Slowly he relaxed, his muscles melting into Greg’s patient hands. Greg rested his chin on Mycroft’s head. He wanted to press a kiss there but settled for reminding himself how remarkable this arrangement already was.

“How would I…what would I say?” Mycroft said finally.

“On the phone?” Greg asked.

“Initially, yes,” Mycroft replied. “She is unlikely to reach me in person.” He pressed closer as he admitted, “I may have constructed my life to ensure this.”

Greg nodded. “Understandable.” He took a couple of breaths to think. “When she was talking, I wasn’t really listening. It helped me not get caught in the emotional reaction. Do you think you could do that?”

“How?” Mycroft asked. “Her voice is so…”

Greg thought. “I found something to focus on,” he said, keeping the specifics back. “And thinking about that made her voice just background noise. So I could wait until she was finished before I said anything. And it didn’t matter what she’d said, because it didn’t affect me.”

He felt Mycroft nod against his chest. “I can do that,” he whispered.

“And when you do get a word in,” Greg said, “I think you need to be direct. Make a short statement. She won’t listen long enough for a complicated sentence. And,” he took a deep breath, “this is the hardest part, but if she won’t listen, you tell her you’re going to hang up, and you hang up.”

“Hang up?” Mycroft repeated.

“Yep,” Greg replied.

“She’ll call back,” Mycroft said.

“She will,” Greg agreed. “And you answer politely, but if she keeps cutting you off, you keep hanging up on her. And eventually she’ll learn.” He could feel Mycroft shrinking into himself. “It’s not easy,” he soothed. “And it might take a while before she learns the first time. But she will learn, even if she hates it, because if not,” Greg took a deep breath, “she’ll lose you.”

Mycroft stiffened. “And if I can’t do that,” he said, “would I…would that be reason enough for you to cease our agreement?”

Greg froze. That was something he hadn’t considered. He remembered other times, battered wives and sometimes husbands that returned to their partners, more comfortable in the known than the unknown, no matter how bad things might be getting. Plus, as Mycroft had said, she would cut him off. And that was evidently a deal breaker for Mycroft.

_Oh, Mycroft._

“I’m not going to leave you because of your mother,” he said carefully. “But I won’t condone her behaviour. I won’t allow her to speak to me like that, and I won’t sit by and let her speak to you like that if I’m here.” He swallowed, suddenly anxious. “I know that will make things harder for you. I hope it’s not a deal breaker.”

Mycroft was still for a long time. “Very well,” he said. “I will…I can try the first technique. To block out her words. Initially.”

“That’s a great start,” Greg said. Keeping his voice level was difficult. “And if you want to do more, I’ll support you. But I won’t push you.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft whispered.

They sat the rest of the evening in each other’s arms, neither speaking until Greg’s watch beeped, signalling that he best head back to his own flat.

“Will you be okay?” Greg asked, shrugging his coat on. The urge to kiss Mycroft again was strong, but he held back. It felt opportunistic to do so now, even if he did want to comfort Mycroft.

“I will,” Mycroft said. He drew a deep breath. “I am a coward,” he said, holding up one hand to still Greg’s protestations at his self-assessment. “I would not ask you to act as message boy, however I suspect my mother will act to speak with you in person as she is not able to reach me. Should she do so,” he breathed deeply again, “and should the conversation persist, you have my permission to tell her my preference for dating…against dating women.” His voice wavered but his eyes held Greg’s. “I agreed to her dates because it was what she wanted, but I can’t do it anymore.” His next breath was shaky and he opened his mouth, but closed it again before speaking. Greg wondered what he had been going to say.

“Okay,” he said, pressing fingernails into his palms. “Will I…should I call you tomorrow?”

“Please,” Mycroft replied. He paused before adding, “Thank you, Gregory.”

“No problem,” Greg said. He stepped in, grateful Mycroft met him in the middle for a hug, more fierce that he’d anticipated but comforting. A brush of his lips along Mycroft’s cheek, and he fancied he felt the same in return, but wouldn’t allow himself to turn into the caress.

_Coward._

“See you soon,” Greg murmured before stepping out the door.


	8. Chapter 8

Greg hung up the phone, adrenalin already pumping as he anticipated Violet Holmes’s imminent arrival. It was less than ten hours since he’d left Mycroft’s flat; she was certainly in a hurry, or she was pissed. Possibly both. This time, Greg felt far more prepared. Holding Mycroft’s wishes close, he knew it was still okay to be firm about his boundaries. He’d made sure he was sitting down, but not on the far side of his desk. Removing physical obstacles was the first step to make someone more comfortable. Interviewing 101.

“Violet,” he said calmly as she entered his office. “How are you?”

“I beg your pardon?” she said, raising the eyebrow at him. Greg wouldn’t allow himself to be drawn into anything snarky. Polite but firm, that was his goal. He was taking the high road, but he wasn’t going to be rude about it.

“I asked how you are,” Greg said. When she didn’t reply, he continued, “I’m assuming you have something to say or something to ask.” He gestured at the empty chair. “You might as well sit down.”

Greg didn’t say anything else, instead waiting for Violet to decide what she would do. Her mind was racing, Greg could see it in the slight narrowing of her eyes, but she finally sank to rest on the edge of his guest chair.

“What makes you assume I have anything to say to you?” Violet said.

“Why else would you be here?” Greg asked, making sure to smile. Violet’s eye hardened, and she opened her mouth but before she could speak, Greg raised one hand. “If I may,” he said, with a tone that made it clear he wasn’t actually asking, “I’m going to set some expectations for this meeting.” Violet’s mouth closed, lips pressing into a hard line, but she remained seated. Greg considered that a win. “I’m quite happy to have a conversation with you,” he said. “But we are both adults here, and we’ll both need to behave as such. We’ll both speak, we’ll both listen, and under no circumstances will either of us revert to abusive comments about each other or anyone else.”

“Any other limitations?” Violet asked, sarcasm dripping from each word.

“Yes,” Greg said, as an idea came to him. “I will not break any confidence with Mycroft, and I won’t pass any messages along to him.” He smiled again. “You’re welcome to call whenever you like, of course. I think he’d answer your questions if you wanted to listen.”

Violet’s expression grew more and more incredulous. “And should I find your conditions objectionable?” she asked.

Greg shrugged. “You’re welcome to leave,” he said calmly. Tempting though it was to add more he closed his mouth, waiting again for her to accept or decline his conditions.

“I find your conditions acceptable,” she said. It sounded like she forced the words out through gritted teeth.

“Great,” Greg said. “Why don’t you begin.”

He folded his hands on his lap, hoping the tight grip he had on his own knuckles wasn’t visible to her. Violet was obviously thrown by Greg’s approach. Greg waited as she composed what she wanted to say.

“My purpose in coming here,” she said, straightening her shoulders, “is two-fold. I want to know why Mycroft is behaving in this distasteful and disrespectful manner, and I want to know what it will take for you and Mycroft to cease your…connection.”

Greg’s heart was thumping hard, and the blood rushing in his ears was loud. He waited, breathing carefully and making sure Violet was finished before he nodded.

“Okay,” he said, resisting the urge to rub his sweaty palms down his trousers. “Let me address the two things you’ve brought up.” He cleared his throat. It was possible he would vomit later with nerves, but now was not the moment to do so. “I’ll go backwards, since the second thing is a quicker answer. If you’re asking what you could offer for me to break it off with Mycroft, the answer is nothing. You don’t have a say in our relationship. We’re grown men, capable of making our own choices.” He cleared his throat and continued, ignoring Violet’s furious glare that he got in to speak before she was able to do so.

“The first thing, about why Mycroft’s behaving like this.”

Violet nodded once.

“You’ll have to talk to him about his motivations,” Greg said. “That’s not something I’m able to get into with you.”

Violet exhaled sharply, and how she managed to sound unhappy just by breathing, Greg didn’t know.

“As to your description of his actions as distasteful and disrespectful, I’d like to understand that,” Greg said. “If you’d care to explain it, of course.”

Violet stared at him for so long Greg wondered if she was going to speak at all. When she finally drew a deep breath he matched it, hoping he was being subtle.

“It is disrespectful for him to go behind his mother’s back in such a fashion,” Violet said. “I have made my wishes clear for his future. A respectful son would consider that before he acted.”

Greg nodded. He was amazed they were even having a conversation, and he wanted it to continue for as long as they could manage it. He guessed she would not want to be seen haranguing someone of his position – as little as she thought of him, she couldn’t argue his position commanded a level of respect by other people. In his experience, bullies wouldn’t pick on someone who responded as Greg had. And she was a classic bully, hardly someone to be feared. Not by him at least. And there was no way he’d let her keep treating Mycroft like a wilful child.

“I hear what you’re saying,” Greg said. “Can I ask you a question?”

Violet nodded once.

“Why do you think Mycroft agreed to go on dates with women you picked?”

Violet stared at him. “It was – and is – his duty to find a partner,” she said, as though he had asked her what colour the sky was. “An acceptable partner,” she added with a sneer.

Greg nodded. Her answer was more or less what he expected her to say. “What if I told you he has no interest in women,” Greg said. “He gave me permission to tell you that, if it came up. He agreed to meet the women you chose because he knew it was important to you. He was considering your wishes. He has been for a long time. But what you want for him is not what he wants for himself, and he can’t do it anymore.”

“His preferences have no bearing,” Violet said. “For generations, women and men of society have made matches that benefit their families, regardless of their personal feelings.”

Greg nodded slowly. “Are you saying he doesn’t get a chance to be happy?” he asked.

“Happiness will come,” Violet said. “Provided he’s willing to accept his place.”

Greg nodded again. The slow breathing was working, but only just. “And if he’s decided being happy means doing what makes him happy now instead of chasing someone else’s idea of it?” he said.

“Where on earth would he come across that idea?” Violet said in astonishment.

_Everywhere but you, from the looks of it._

Greg cleared his throat. “Our first date was a mistake,” he began.

“Finally, some sense,” Violet said.

“A mistake in that neither of us expected to be on a date with each other,” Greg said. “But once we realised, it was comfortable. We were both happier and more relaxed than either of us had been on a date in a very long time.” He stared at Violet. “Isn’t that what you want for your son? For both your sons? To be happy and relaxed with their partner?”

Violet stared. “So it _is_ your influence that has encouraged this behaviour,” she said. She shifted her weight, raising her chin as she declared, “Clearly Mycroft has not met the right woman.”

“No, he hasn’t,” Greg agreed. “But out of respect for your wishes he tried, for a long time.” He took a deep breath. This was the part he wasn’t sure he would have the opportunity to say. The part Violet would definitely hate. “And now he’s an adult, Violet. An independent man who wants to be happy, and who wants to choose the person that makes him happy.”

Violet’s lips had pressed harder and harder as Greg spoke.

“And I suppose you believe that’s you?” Violet said. The sneer from her first visit to his office was back, which wasn’t surprising but was still a little disappointing. For a second there Greg thought he was making a difference, but it appeared he was wrong.

_Fuck it._

“It’s not up to me to say,” Greg said. “But if I might be so bold, maybe you should ask your son what makes him happy, and actually listen when he answers.” He blinked as she opened her mouth, rushing the next words before she could speak over them. “Because you’re about to lose him if you don’t.”

As he predicted, Violet stood, her bearing cold and imperious. Greg sat, allowing her the dramatic exit she so clearly wanted.

“Mycroft will make the right choice, given appropriate motivation,” she said, turning on her heel and stalking out of the office.

Trembling, Greg stood, carefully closing his door before he returned to sink into his chair. His hands were shaking as he brought them to his head, absently scruffing across his scalp. The conversation had gone both better and worse than he expected, and now was the panic attack he figured would come.

Except it didn’t.

He was shaking, but his head was clear. There was one thing he had to do. Violet’s words were ringing in his ears, and Greg knew what she was going to do as surely as if she had told him herself.

_Given appropriate motivation._

His lungs were burning. Why were they burning? A sudden deep breath eased the sensation, and Greg knew what he had to do. Scrabbling in his desk, he grabbed his phone, finally managing the emergency number Mycroft had given him.

“Anthea,” Greg gasped.

“What do you need?” she said immediately.

“Car. Office. Now,” he said. “Have to see Mycroft before his mother gets to him.”

Two breaths later she replied. “Seven minutes.”

The phone went dead. Okay. Seven minutes. Running his hands through his hair again, Greg realised he was about to fulfil the prophesy he’d made earlier. Reaching for his rubbish bin, he threw up, the pain in his abdomen and sharp sourness at the back of his throat foul. It felt like he was purging the remains of that conversation, but it was a relief to have it out of his body. Greg wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and winced. He grabbed the toothbrush he kept in his drawer and stumbled to the bathroom, several younger officers looking startled as he leaned on the sink, the toothbrush none too steady in his mouth.

By the time he got back to his desk, Sally was there, looking worried.

“Gotta go,” Greg managed. “I’ll call you later.”

She nodded, a frown pulling her features tight. “I’ll text you.”

“Thanks,” Greg whispered.

Coat, badge, and he was downstairs. God only knew how he negotiated the actual steps, but when the car pulled up he was waiting and slid in without a second glance.

“What do I need to know?”

Anthea’s voice was a surprise; Greg hadn’t realise she would come. He processed her words slowly, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkened interior. Summarise, he told himself. What does she _need_ to know?

“Mycroft’s mother is going to cut him off if he doesn’t break up with me and marry a woman.”

Anthea, to her credit, barely raised an eyebrow. “Why do you think he would do that?” she said.

Greg stared. “Have you met his mother?”

“I have,” Anthea replied. She was looking at Greg with more intensity than he could remember. Finally she spoke. “I can see how that would be distressing,” she said. “We are heading to Mycroft’s flat. Rest assured it is secure.”

Greg nodded, biting back the sharp retort that threatened. Instead he closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. Despair warred with hope, but he was too agitated to decide which was winning in his head. All he could do right now was wait.

When they pulled into Mycroft’s street, Greg’s heart nearly stopped. Several cars were already parked outside Mycroft’s building. He couldn’t hold in the gasp at the sight of a furious looking Violet Holmes standing on the street, her back as straight as an arrow as two pairs of security people faced off at the bottom of the stairs, one clearly demanding entrance, the other refusing it. Another pair of security sat in one of the cars, watching the stalemate. Greg wondered which side they were on. His stomach roiled with anxiety.

“Back entrance,” Anthea said, and Greg glanced at her. She was speaking into an intercom; the car continued past. “She will not gain entry,” Anthea continued, and this time she was addressing Greg. “Her influence will not sway the security of Her Majesty’s staff.”

Greg nodded, clenching his jaw. “Pretty good for a lowly employee,” he said. The joke was terrible, of course, but Anthea’s mouth quirked anyway. She studied him as they rounded another corner and entered the small private garage of a building in the next street. Greg was about to ask what was going on when the car started to drop into the earth.

“Car lift?” he managed.

_Jesus…_

“We have a moment until we arrive,” Anthea said, unperturbed by their new direction. “Let’s speak plainly, shall we?” She’d shifted to face Greg properly.

“Okay,” Greg said. His mind was pulled from the Violet Issue to this new conversation. “Um, about what?”

“Mycroft is one of the most skilled and senior advisors to Her Majesty’s Government,” Anthea said. “He is not technically employed by any one agency but undertakes work both domestic and internationally, particularly with respect to negotiations and political matters.”

“Okay,” Greg repeated himself.

“Any further details would be in breach of the Official Secrets Act,” Anthea said matter-of-factly. She handed him a tablet. “Sign here and fingerprints, please.”

Dimly, Greg registered that the car had come to a stop as he did what she asked. _Probably should have asked what that was_. “Okay,” he said. “Um, why are you telling me this?”

“Mycroft is independently wealthy,” Anthea said, stashing the tablet somewhere. “He doesn’t need his mother’s money. She tries to convince him he needs his family, their historical name and social influence, but she vastly overestimates her own importance outside of Oxfordshire. She is too focussed on her own standing in society to listen to either of her sons, and she’s already lost one by her stubborn ways. And since we’re speaking plainly, he’s been happier in this last two weeks than I’ve ever seen him.” She paused, nodding. When she touched her ear, Greg realised she was listening to an earpiece. “Mrs. Holmes has been encouraged to move on,” she said. “Rest assured that your status as Mycroft’s Intimate Partner means we can protect you from her unwanted attention for as long as she persists.”

Greg blinked. “Okay,” he repeated, having no idea what that meant. Sounded official though. Was that what the document was about? _Mycroft’s Intimate Partner._ Suddenly, he didn’t care what was happening with Violet. She couldn’t get in, that was the main thing. “Can I see Mycroft now?”

Anthea nodded, but before he could turn away she placed one hand on his forearm. “Hurt him and you’ll disappear,” she said, and her tone was so calm Greg took a second to register the words.

“I couldn’t,” he said, mortified at how much emotion was audible in his words.

It must have been enough because the door gave under his fumbling and he stepped out of the car. It was an underground carpark, with a single lift in place. There was no button, but a single pad beside the door. Greg blinked at it for a second before he remembered. _Fingerprints._ His right thumb was enough to open the lift, which turned out to be as blank inside as it was outside. As the small box rose, Greg found himself breathing deeply, wondering where he would come out. Reception, he assumed, but the lift instead took him right to Mycroft’s floor instead.

 _First time I’ve arrived in the lift,_ Greg thought. First time was pretty optimistic, he thought, knocking twice and stepping back. Who knew how Mycroft would react?


	9. Chapter 9

“Gregory,” Mycroft said. His surprise was clear. “Won’t you come in?”

Greg nodded, sliding past Mycroft’s suit and into the living room. He could hear Mycroft closing the door, but it took him a couple of seconds too long to appear. Must’ve taken some time to think, Greg told himself before the figure in the doorway stopped his mind turning over.

He hadn’t been thinking.

He’d removed his jacket and tie.

The _accoutrements_ of his day, wasn’t that what he called them?

_When I am confident work is concluded for the day, yet too few hours remain before bed…_

“You don’t even know why I’m here,” Greg said. Why was his voice so quiet? Could Mycroft even hear him from this far across the room? His legs didn’t seem to be working to get closer.

Mycroft’s eyes did not waver as they roamed over his face, doubtless taking in the broad strokes of Greg’s morning. “Only one thing would bring you here so early in the day,” he said. “And to know I was here, Anthea must have been involved. Hence, my work commitments will be dealt with so I might concentrate on you.”

Greg blinked. “She wasn’t very nice,” he said, the words feeling insufficient as soon as he shaped them. “Not Anthea. I don’t mean…not Anthea.”

“I expect she was not,” Mycroft replied, and to Greg’s relief he stepped closer. “Might I offer…” he trailed off, but widened his arms slightly, making his meaning clear.

“Yes please,” Greg whispered. He was as fragile as he could ever remember, the cracks already threatening to burst him apart. Mycroft’s arms around him were as a buttress against a crumbling brick wall, and Greg leaned into it. His body slumped against the steady mass of Mycroft’s chest, anchoring his arms around Mycroft’s waist. He was too close to the edge to be embarrassed about it right now. There was no more pressing down his emotion as far as this was concerned. Violet, in her eagerness to separate them, had managed only to act as catalyst, bringing Greg to a point he might not have otherwise reached for months.

“Mycroft,” Greg whispered, pressing his words into the damp shirt cradling his cheek.

“Yes,” came the reply, barely murmured but audible.

“Your mother came to see me today.” The words were tricky, but Greg forced them out.

“I surmised as much,” Mycroft replied. “I spoke with her again last night.”

“You did?” Greg said. The words were so surprising he stood straighter, only enough to be able to see Mycroft. He might have eased further back but Mycroft’s arms remained around him. _Comforting_. Something swooped in Greg’s belly but he couldn’t deal with it right now. “Did it work? The not listening? What did she say?”

“It was exceptionally late,” Mycroft replied, “and I…I could not block her out.” His arms tightened around Greg’s shoulders, eyes flickering with distress even at the memory.

“You don’t have to justify how you deal with her,” Greg said. “But what did she say?”

“I did not expected her to visit you so promptly.” Mycroft’s voice softened as he added, “I intended to call you after my morning meeting. I hope you can understand.”

“What did she say?” Greg said again.

“She made her position clear, once again,” Mycroft said. “That my duty lies in making a match with a woman of her choosing.”

Greg nodded. That wasn’t new. “And what did you say?”

“I would not be drawn on discussion,” Mycroft replied. “Only that I was happy in my current relationship and,” he pulled in a deep breath, “that I was an adult, making my own choices.”

Pride swept through Greg like wildfire and he held back the urge to kiss Mycroft, hard and hot. “Good one,” he whispered. “That must have been difficult.”

“She was unhappy,” Mycroft replied, the calm voice almost certainly understating his mother’s tone, “and intimated you would be easily bought off, should she wish to do so.”

“What did you tell her?” Greg asked, hardly able to breathe as he waited. It must have been something big if she’d gotten herself down to London so early in the morning.

“That she was welcome to try, but your integrity was far beyond such measures,” Mycroft said.

_Wow._

“Thank you,” Greg whispered.

“It was easier to defend you,” Mycroft admitted quietly. “Than myself.”

Greg swallowed, his heart attempting to heave itself out his throat as emotion threatened to overwhelm him. That meant something, right? You didn’t just say that kind of thing and it not mean something.

“And if I might ask after your conversation?” Mycroft asked, cutting through the emotional spiral working through Greg.

Suddenly, the urgency drained away. It didn’t matter what Violet had said, though he’d tell Mycroft at some point. It didn’t matter what she wanted to say to Mycroft today. Greg would bet her poisonous mind had twisted their conversation so she could lie to Mycroft, perhaps playing on her eldest son’s insecurities to plant doubt about Greg. Right now it didn’t matter.

What mattered was this. Greg was here in Mycroft’s arms and they were comforting each other. It was like breathing, how naturally Greg felt drawn to Mycroft now. They’d defended each other against her, and all that remained was the truth. Their truth, whatever that looked like.

“You might,” Greg said, his heart calm, “but the most important part wasn’t what happened in that conversation.”

“It wasn’t?” Mycroft asked, eyes puzzled.

“Anthea’s made me your official Intimate Partner,” Greg said. “Paperwork and everything.”

Fingers tightened on his back, and Greg shivered as another scenario blossomed in his mind. _Not now._ “She did?” Mycroft whispered.

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “She said you’ve been happy. And I know I’ve been happy. And that’s not pretending. Not for me. So if you wanted to make this real,” he shrugged, not quite sure where that sentence was heading but knowing Mycroft would understand. “Your mother doesn’t matter.”

Mycroft swallowed, his eyes still locked on Greg’s. “What did she offer you? To leave?”

“Does it matter?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft said.

“I don’t have any idea,” Greg said. It looked like he was going to explain this conversation right now after all. “She made a vague suggestion and I turned it down. But she said she could convince you. Given appropriate motivation, she said.”

“And you thought it meant money?” Mycroft asked.

“Jesus, it sounds terrible when you say it like that,” Greg said. “Fuck, I mean…Anthea explained some things. About your job. Just a bit, but before that I thought, I mean I didn’t know, I thought maybe you had a trust fund or something she could block, or drain or something…” He shrugged, knowing how badly he was explaining this. “I didn’t know how much you relied on that. Financially. And for your job. Your livelihood.”

“And you thought I might be swayed?” Mycroft asked.

“I didn’t think,” Greg whispered. “I panicked. That you might be.”

“Anthea may have overstepped,” Mycroft said, “however if she made it clear I am not reliant on my family in a financial sense, that is correct.”

“Okay.” Greg started to clarify, but Mycroft stopped him.

The kiss took Greg by surprise. Gentle, just enough to stop him speaking and take his breath away at the same time. When Mycroft drew back Greg felt himself lean forward, but the kiss broke anyway.

“Perhaps we could agree the details are largely moot in the face of our decision to be honest with each other,” Mycroft murmured.

“ _Our_ decision?” Greg croaked. “Are you saying…you too?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, chasing the word with another kiss.

This time his lips settled comfortably against Greg’s and there was no sense it was temporary. Greg gasped, chasing it, not quite believing it was happening, let alone that Mycroft really wanted this. Not just to practice, or to make sure they were comfortable with each other, but to kiss. From the tightening of his arms, pulling Greg back in so their bodies were flush, there was no mistaking it.

Greg wasn’t going to question any part of what was happening. He slid his mouth against Mycroft’s lips, relishing the opportunity to really explore. It wasn’t long before he was tracing that shape with his tongue, Mycroft’s indrawn breath at the touch lighting a fire in Greg’s belly. He wanted more of that sound. And not just that sound, but others, whatever Mycroft would make when Greg tried things. And oh, did Greg have things he wanted to try.

Before he could wrestle any one idea out of his brain, Mycroft’s lips parted beneath his and Greg’s tongue had another space to explore, another tongue to caress, and the fire grew to roar through Greg’s veins.

“Mycroft,” he gasped as his mouth slid sideways. The next words were lost to a groan, rent from his throat as Mycroft ran his teeth along Greg’s jawline. “Oh God…please…”

“I wish to take you to my bed,” Mycroft breathed, the words hot in Greg’s ear.

“Jesus, yes,” Greg gasped.

Mycroft kissed Greg again, and it was as hot and desperate as the first had been gentle and reassuring. No more careful contact; this was tongues tangling, mimicking the restless press of hips lower down. Greg’s cock dragged against Mycroft’s thigh, his own quad feeling Mycroft’s erection at the same time. Someone’s groan was loud and they were breathing into each other’s mouths, and Greg’s hand was at the back of Mycroft’s head so they could kiss again. Surely breathing was optional, though his lungs were burning, screaming that kissing could wait but breathing could not.

Greg didn’t know which was right.

He was going to explode from the heat of it all.

“Mycroft,” Greg managed. Allowing Mycroft to kiss down his neck was distracting – he kept licking and Greg could have sworn he was using teeth – but he needed to ask. “Bed?”

Instead of replying Mycroft nodded, moaning as he sucked a mark into Greg’s neck. A powerful surge raced from that spot to Greg’s groin and his hips kicked forward, fingers tightening into Mycroft’s waist. This was exactly what his brain had suggested earlier, but he’d not allowed himself to consider it.

_Jesus._

Greg blinked, realising he and Mycroft were staring at each other across a space both tiny and vast. It was humid and hot as his eyes clocked pink lips, wet and parted, and a look of such desire in grey eyes Greg could hardly believe it. And now they were about to…

_Jesus actual Christ._

As though reading his mind, Mycroft took Greg’s hand and turned, walking them the short distance to his bedroom. It was beautiful, of course, though the daylight was an odd detail. When was the last time he’d done this in the middle of the day? Greg didn’t care; it meant he’d be able to see Mycroft, and that became a sudden and powerful motivator. Without a word he reached for Mycroft’s shirt buttons, easing the first few out before looking back up to check it was okay.

Mycroft held his eyes as he raised one wrist, slipping the cufflink loose.

Greg grinned, his chest almost as tight as his trousers were feeling. He returned to Mycroft’s buttons, reaching the front of his trousers at the same moment Mycroft’s hands started tugging the tails of Greg’s shirt from his waistband. Greg fumbled the first few of his own buttons, barely able to control his hands as Mycroft’s fingers trailed over his skin. His head dropped forward, desire swirling the heat in his blood. It was tantalising and he wanted more, even as he felt his muscles tremble in its wake.

Enough buttons were finally free and Greg tugged at the back of his collar, pulling his shirt over his head. Mycroft had hesitated and Greg raised his eyes.

“Touch me,” he whispered, pressing Mycroft’s hand against his skin.

Grey eyes flashed and Mycroft kissed him, hands sliding boldly now that he had the permission he’d sought. Pressure on his spine brought Greg forward and he scrambled to pull Mycroft’s shirt free where it was caught between them. His skin was warm, pressing against Greg’s chest as he tugged the sleeves down Mycroft’s arms. Finally the fabric fell to the floor and Greg could sink into the sensation of Mycroft’s skin under his fingertips. He’d been distracted from the kissing, too; Mycroft shifted to kiss down his neck again, free to explore beyond the boundary Greg’s collar had dictated earlier. He wasn’t just using his lips; it was definitely tongue and teeth as well, and the difference between each was delicious and unpredictable. Much as Greg wanted to concentrate on his hands and the contours of Mycroft’s shoulders the little nips Mycroft was trailing along his neck drew gasp after gasp until Greg gave up trying to concentrate and pressed his fingertips into Mycroft’s biceps instead.

“My…Mycroft,” Greg gasped, when teeth teased over his collarbone.

“Too much?” Mycroft breathed, pulling back.

“No,” Greg said, “and yes.”

He couldn’t tell who was breathing harder; the world pulled in tight before Mycroft’s eyes widened and he nodded wordlessly. _Me too._ Greg could read it and the acknowledgement swirled around them. They leaned in as one, their kiss slow but shaky. It felt risky, but Greg dragged his fingers down Mycroft’s back, slow enough to be stopped if it wasn’t what Mycroft wanted. Greg reached the waistband and his fingertips tucked under without protest.

“Please,” Mycroft whispered against Greg’s mouth, and his hands moved far more urgently to the front of Greg’s trousers.

The next few seconds were a whirl of fabric and skin and the trying not to fall over coordination born of a sudden desperation to be touching and touched at once. All at once it was skin against skin, neither pausing before coming together. Greg knew the groan, harsh and loud, was from his throat. It was rough, dragged out of him by the feel of Mycroft’s body pressing against him, long and lean.

What had started as a generalised desire was starting to pull in tighter. Greg felt Mycroft’s hips rocking as they kissed, moans as rhythmic as the breathing they shared. He wanted to slow down, to ask what Mycroft wanted, or liked, or something, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. Mycroft’s noises were more than just the moans. His breath hitched, he whined, and the little gasps he made sent sparks cartwheeling through Greg’s chest and down his body. It was all too appealing, working out what action triggered each sound.

Whatever conversation they needed to have would have to wait.

Before Greg realised it Mycroft was gripping his hips hard, the last sequence of gasps sending his low level trembling into a full body shudder. Not until Greg felt wetness blossom on his belly did he realise what happened. The rush of arousal following his realisation tipped Greg over into his own orgasm, shaking hard as he thrust hard into the wetness already produced by Mycroft.

When he came back to himself Greg’s body was thankfully upright, pulling air into his lungs deep and ragged. He flexed his fingers, knowing he’d have left a mark in Mycroft’s upper arms with how deep he’d pressed. A flash of satisfaction ran through him.

_You’ll remember. You’ll know it’s not pretend any more._

As his breathing eased, Greg felt Mycroft’s do the same, his chest no longer heaving. Nice as the closeness could be, Greg knew the mess between them would quickly turn sticky. Clean-up was not optional.

“We should clean up,” Greg murmured, opening his eyes.

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied. He turned his arm, examining the redness where Greg had grabbed him.

“Sorry,” Greg said.

“Please don’t be,” Mycroft told him. His eyes were soft as he met Greg’s gaze. “I am not.”

Greg felt a grin form before he’d really processed the words. The expression itself was enough to spread warmth through his chest. “Okay, I take it back,” he said.

“Might I suggest a shower?” Mycroft asked.

“Yep,” Greg replied. “As long as it’s big enough for two.”

“I’ve never had occasion to try it,” Mycroft replied. “Perhaps you could help me decide.”

Reaching up to kiss Mycroft was an impulse Greg had suppressed for a long time, but now he was allowed to indulge it. Pressing his lips to Mycroft’s, feeling him hum with satisfaction and lean into it, Greg couldn’t believe he was allowed to do this. Couldn’t believe that Mycroft had chosen this, chosen _him_ , over his family. Well, over his mother, but still.

“Come on,” Greg said finally. He smiled again. “We can do this in the shower.”

“Assuming there is room for us both,” Mycroft pointed out, though he eased away from Greg. “Oh…dear.”

“Yeah, that’s what I mean,” Greg said, wincing at the sticky situation on their abdomens.

“How lucky I am to have your wisdom,” Mycroft said dryly.

“You certainly are,” Greg replied.

They shared a look, and Greg knew their light words held a deeper meaning for both of them. There would be further conversations, more explanations and doubtless more touching but for right now, it was enough to be in agreement on this point.


	10. Epilogue

_To my mother,_

_This correspondence has taken many forms, however all can be condensed to the following brief message. Be assured it is intended to be conveyed with respect and the acknowledgement you have performed the role of parent to the best of your abilities. You have raised a pair of sons independent enough to take their place in the world, and now I take responsibility for all facets of my life._

_I am a grown man, and as such I wish to make my own decisions regarding my personal relationships. For a very long time I acquiesced to your wishes, however it was cowardly of me not to be honest with you. I wish to rectify that now. I will never seek out an intimate relationship with a woman. Label this as you must, but understand it is the truth._

_I chose Gregory. He is an honest, compassionate man, and I could ask for no more in a partner. While I require neither your permission nor your blessing, please know this decision is not a reflection on you, nor is it intended to make a point. Simply put, he makes me happy, and I can think of no better reason to secure his company._

_Should you wish to support us, your communication would be well received. If that is not the case, I wish you well but respectfully bid you make no contact with either myself or Gregory. It would be regrettable to have to enforce my request but understand I will defend Gregory’s comfort above all else._

_Your son,_

_Mycroft Holmes_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The (triumphant) end of this story.*
> 
> * There will be one further scene for one of my Patreons in a week or two.
> 
> Thank you everyone for sharing this story.


	11. Extra Scene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra scene featuring Protective!Greg for Lizbetrx. I hope you like it!

It was surprising how quickly you could become comfortable with a new arrangement. Greg marvelled over this fact multiple times a day now. Like how people asked how his boyfriend was going at work. Or how Sherlock was grudgingly accepting of him, once John pointed out how Greg stood up to their mother on Mycroft’s behalf.

But the most amazing thing, without question, was how he could pick up the phone and a car would come and collect him – a fancy one, that probably nobody had ever vomited in, unlike the cabs he might have called. And the fancy car would drive through the streets to a fancy building, where he was allowed to walk inside, grin at the receptionist, and walk up the stairs.

That choice – stairs over lift – always made him smile.

Today Greg was home early. It was the one good thing about attending a week of training; it was long enough for them to hire someone who would cover at least some of his role while he was gone. In turn that meant he could leave on time without putting in unpaid overtime, which allowed him to arrive back at the flat before the sun touched the horizon. It was weird, but he liked it. Hopefully Mycroft would like it too, Greg thought, knocking on Mycroft’s door. He wasn’t quite at the point of having his own key, but that was fine with him. He liked having his own space, and he knew Mycroft valued his, too. Besides, taking it more slowly was a good thing, in his view. It meant they were thinking about things. About future things.

The idea made him smile again, and when Mycroft opened the door Greg’s smile widened again. At least, until he saw the expression on his face.

“What happened?” Greg asked immediately.

Mycroft stepped back, allowing him to step inside, and Greg did without taking his eyes from Mycroft’s face. It wasn’t only his expression; he was wearing not only tie and cufflinks, but Greg knew this was one of his more severe suits, usually brought out when some country had forgotten exactly who they were dealing with. It was dark and unforgiving, and when paired with that tie and the matching waistcoat, there was only one conclusion.

Mycroft was prepared for battle.

“What is it?” Greg asked again when the door had closed behind him.

Mycroft did not speak; instead he shed his jacket, hanging it carefully on the hanger behind him before turning to Greg and wrapping him in a hug. Alarmed, Greg returned the hug, acknowledging this was what Mycroft needed. His explanation would be clearer when he felt better, and Greg would make him feel better. So they stood in Mycroft’s hallway, arms wrapped around each other until Mycroft finally drew a deep breath and relaxed his arms. Greg held on a second longer, checking Mycroft was actually ready to let go before he eased his own embrace.

When he was looking at Mycroft again, Greg waited, hoping he was being patient.

“My mother called,” Mycroft whispered.

Greg felt his jaw loosen at the news. A cold hand snaked down his spine and he managed, “Is she coming here?”

Mycroft blinked. “N-no,” he added.

Greg nodded, resisting the urge to look at Mycroft’s suit. He was ninety-nine percent sure Mycroft had changed his clothes as soon as he’d spoken to his mother.

_Jesus. What the hell did she say?_

“Do you want to sit down?” Greg asked.

Mycroft hesitated. “Don’t you want to know what she said?”

Greg shrugged. “More worried about how you are,” he said. “Wanna cuddle on the sofa?”

Mycroft pressed his lips together, but he nodded. Greg watched, knowing if he waited a second Mycroft would reach long fingers to his cufflinks, then his tie; he held back a smile when Mycroft hung his waistcoat underneath his jacket and turned up his shirtsleeves. He’d used the time to loosen his own tie and untuck his shirt, a detail for which Mycroft usually gave him a reproachful look. Today, he simply watched it happen.

“Ready?” Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded. The few steps to the sofa were silent, and Greg’s heart turned over as Mycroft immediately turned to snuggle into his chest. They wriggled a little, getting comfortable. Greg sighed, his hands stroking long and slow up and down Mycroft’s arms as their breathing aligned. This was where he’d hoped to end up, cajoling and coaxing Mycroft to relax a little earlier than he normally would. Of course a call from Violet wasn’t ideal but if he could ease Mycroft through, well, that would be worthwhile.

“She wanted to talk,” Mycroft said quietly.

Greg hummed, giving Mycroft space to share whatever he could.

“She…John called her,” Mycroft whispered.

Greg felt his eyebrows rise, but he withheld his opinion. He was surprised John hadn’t mentioned it. “Did she…what did John say?”

Mycroft swallowed. “His message was comparable to your own,” he said.

“Wow, okay,” Greg said. “And what did that mean to her?”

Mycroft took a deep breath. “I don’t know,” he said.

“You don’t?”

Mycroft’s head shifted against Greg’s chest in what felt like a shake no. “I hung up on her,” he said in a tiny voice.

“You did?”

Another shift that Greg interpreted as a nod. “She wanted to know if John and Sherlock were in a relationship.”

“She asked you that?” Greg asked in astonishment. It sounded far less aggressive than Violet’s usual language in his opinion.

“Not precisely,” Mycroft replied.

“You don’t have to quote her,” Greg said, feeling Mycroft’s discomfort as he squirmed. His ire at Violet’s terrible parenting – and humaning – rose again, and he breathed deeply several times, willing it to dissipate. This was not the time to get angry at the woman. She wasn’t here; Mycroft was. He had to be Greg’s priority.

“She wasn’t very nice,” Mycroft summarised. “So I…I did what you said. I hung up on her.”

Greg felt pride blossom in his chest. “I’m proud of you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss into Mycroft’s hair. He needed to hear the words, and Greg was happy to say them. It was the truth, and hardly a difficulty.

“She called again,” Mycroft said. He paused. “She was not pleased.”

“And what did you do?” Greg asked.

“I hung up again,” Mycroft replied. “I didn’t know if I could do it again, so I…” he trailed off.

“You what?” Greg asked.

“I texted my father,” Mycroft admitted. “I told him I’d…I’d blocked her number and if she wanted to speak to me she should…she should write a letter first. Explaining why I sh-should listen. To her.”

The pride that had been smouldering, warm and satisfying in Greg’s chest, exploded and he knew his voice shook as he said, “That’s amazing. I am so proud of you.”

Mycroft turned his face up and Greg leaned down, brushing their lips together, not sure he could cope with anything deeper right now.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg grinned, his stubble rasping across Mycroft’s skin. “I disagree,” he murmured, “but I am pleased I was here to see it.”

Mycroft nodded. “I don’t know if my father will pass on my message,” he said, “however he did not respond.”

“Did you expect him to?”

“No,” Mycroft said. “I suppose he and my mother might both be…absent. For a while.”

“Sure,” Greg said. If that was how Mycroft wanted to view it, he was fine with that.

They sat for a while longer, Greg’s pride burning down into a deep contentment as Mycroft sighed against his shoulder. His respect for Mycroft had grown immensely, and he acknowledged quietly that Mycroft’s determination also made him feel more secure. If he was willing to hold firm against his mother, it meant…something. Something that brought a smile to Greg’s face.

“So do you think John and Sherlock are seeing each other?” Greg asked eventually. “Because if they are, we should have them over for a movie night or something.”

He felt Mycroft smile at the ludicrous suggestion, and Greg’s heart turned over. They’d be okay.


End file.
